


Blood Moon

by Ballades



Series: Untold Stories of Thedas [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A tiny bit of fluff, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Mages, Dark fic, F/M, Gen, Lyrium Addiction, Maleficarum, Rape, Revenge, Slow Burn, Templars, UST, alternate uses for blood magic, now with art!, very difficult topics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are and will always be abuses in the Circle.</p><p>Beware a woman's blood magic.</p><p>We don't do <i>tender</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue, 9:30 Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment.
> 
> An experiment to see where this idea will go, an experiment with pushing my own writing into subjects that are extremely difficult, to say the least. In Haven you can listen to people around the fire talk about Templar abuses in the circle. Cole mentions the atrocities he's witnessed. I thought, _What happens when mages fight back? What happens when a woman gets pushed off the deep end and thinks, "Kill all the bad ones?"_
> 
> So here are the trigger warnings. Trigger warnings upon trigger warnings. Rape/noncon, blood, sexual abuse, probably gore, death. I promise not to be gratuitous. I am also hoping this fic is not as horrible as I'm making it out to be, but I am being cautious.

She is twelve when her magic first awakens.

Twelve. Twelve, and so small, a slip of a girl really, just a fall of long dark hair and big dark eyes, too wide and large for her face. Lark, she is called, little Lark, and she loves to sing like her namesake. She hums as she walks the dirty streets of the alienage; she sings and skips, pretending the squalor isn’t there. She dreams up big castles with finery fit for a queen, with tables eternally set so she will never have to feel her tummy’s bite, with enough rooms to feel like she’s alone in the world. 

Lark sings, and her skinny bird legs take her to the mouth of the alienage where there are metal bars caging her. She wraps her bird-boned hands around them, feeling their roughness, stares out at the shems walking by quickly, pretending not to notice her. Her voice stills as she watches them, wonders if she’ll ever be like them, elf-blooded as she is. She looks like them, and her ears are round, not pointed. Sometimes she imagines that the top of her ear is just slightly pointed, and that the other children won’t taunt her and call her a shem, a filthy shem, a fucking shem.

There’s a shemlen who stands guard outside the alienage. He’s so tall, she thinks, tall and made up of metal joints, stacking atop one another like a precipitous tower. Metal boots, metal shins, metal knees, metal thighs, and anything that isn’t metal is a dark leather, like his hands. His face is kind, she believes, not knowing she is starving for kindness, only knowing that someone is speaking to her in a voice that doesn’t hurt.

And even if he doesn’t _look_ kind, he acts kind. Her mother warns her not to talk to him, but she’s twelve, not two, and no one else wants to talk to her. He gives her the heel of a freshly baked loaf of bread from a shemlen bakery in a part of the city she’ll never visit. Lark closes her eyes and inhales, moves her fingers across the crust, listens for the crackle, touches the softness of the inside. When she eats, she does it slowly. She doesn’t gobble like the other children might, but savors it instead, every crunchy-doughy bit, until it’s gone too soon.

He gives her a flower, a small and common one, a tiny clover flower with its white clusters of hidden nectar. No one’s ever given her a flower before, and she cups it in her hand, listens rapt as the guard tells her about a substance called _honey_ , made by bees that visit the flowers and then vomit nectar into the hives for humans to harvest. A ridiculous tale to say the least, but an entertaining one, and that night Lark pulls the flower from her dress and stares at its soft, wilted flimsiness, imagining that a bee got drunk off it and went home to puke on the neighbor’s front stoop, like their neighbor across the way, last week. A sweet if confused little bee, not a wasp, not one of those angry things that built their houses inside someone else’s and then bullied anyone who came near.

He calls her a name no one else does. _Wisp_ , he dubs her, _will o’ the wisp, ghost wisp, flitting wisp_. Lark doesn’t know what a wisp is, and when she presses him she finds out that he doesn’t know what a wisp is either, really. It’s just a word he thinks suits her, so Lark lets it be, lets him call her Lady Wisp. She’s pleased at being called lady, holds it close, and when she isn’t at the gate talking to him, she prances over the cobblestones, adding wings to her castle, and beautiful dresses, and real shoes with silk bows, and lots and lots of horses and carriages to carry her, Lady Wisp, anywhere she wishes.

One day when she leaves home her mother tells her, _da’len, be careful_. Lark hugs her mother, feathers kisses over the tattoos on her face like she used to when she was four and that kind of behavior was allowed and encouraged. _I will_ , she promises, not taking heed, not understanding until she gets to the front of the alienage that the gates are open and the shems are coming in. Frightened, her belly cramping, she runs, the dirty hem of her dress fluttering behind her, runs until she hears a familiar voice calling out to her: _Lady Wisp, Lady Wisp!_

It’s the guard, and he’s by himself, looking lost in the crooked, leaning maze of the alienage. Lark approaches him, asks him about the other shemlen who are coming in, and the guard assures her that they aren’t here for her, that they’re here for a bad person. _Good_ , Lark says, thinking of the older boys who like to throw rocks at her, or screech rudely over her singing in such a way that she has to stop immediately and leave.

 _But I’m here for you,_ the guard says.

Lark doesn’t understand right away, but she understands soon enough when he grabs her and pushes her down, pins down her arms and tries to kiss her. His hands, she discovers, aren’t leather but metal, hard, cruel metal, metal that bites into her skin, leaves stinging marks on the corner of her lip when she tries to call for help. She struggles under him but she’s so little and he’s so big, and the fear is a sharp, searing feeling in her abdomen as he pushes her dress up and rips away anything underneath.

Lark screams then, takes breath and screams herself hoarse, keeps screaming as that metal hand clamps down over her mouth, screams ugly sounds, loud sounds, sounds that weave dissonant and jangling into a terror-filled song. The guard picks her up and slams her hard enough against a wall that her cheekbone bounces right off it, and the song stops for want of air. He knocks her knees apart, covers her.

There is a gush of something warm and wet between her legs; she feels something tear. Lark’s magic blooms suddenly, blooms like the blood dripping down her thighs, blooms hot and coppery and raw and dark. She is glowing, a red nimbus surrounding her, and somehow the guard isn’t touching her anymore, he’s flat on his back in the street, trying to scrabble awkwardly away with his breeches down. Silent, Lark points at him, feels something tear again, but this time it tears in _him_ , tears hard enough to make him fall over, clutching his chest.

Lark watches the guard die moment by moment, lying in the street, still erect.

She can feel his blood pooling inside his chest cavity, and with that blood comes a whispering power. Lark reaches out to it, tentative at first, growing bolder when nothing happens except for her hair lifting and stirring to an unseen wind. But then the guard dies, she can feel it, and the power winks out, except for the slow trickle wending its way down her right leg.

When she gets home her mother is terrified. Lark wonders why she isn’t terrified herself, wonders why she feels distant and cold, as if something in her has broken in two. She speaks, and her voice comes out husky; she claps a hand to her throat in alarm. _Da’len, ma da’len,_ her mother weeps, weeps and explains that Lark’s moon cycle has come, weeps and asks what happened. _I’ll show you!_ Lark explains, her deep black eyes seeing the clover flower, now dried, on the windowsill. _Look!_

The flower sparks, smokes, crumples into ash. Lark’s mother wails then, falling to her knees, a stream of incomprehensible, broken Elvish falling from her mouth, mixing with her sobs. Lark watches, her head tilted to the side, passionless, feeling like she’s not really there, like she’s watching herself watch her mother cry over a burnt-up flower. She doesn’t understand why her mother won’t let her go from the circle of her arms, doesn’t understand why she clings to her the entire night, or why her shift is soaked in tears from sundown to sunup.

Lark understands later the next day, when the templars come for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... are you in? Leave a comment, let me know. <3


	2. 9:34 Dragon

Darkness and pain.

Every month, a variation of the same. Some months are better than others, and Lark is mostly functional, shuffling along from lecture to lecture, going to the library afterwards, huddling into a ball in one of the large, plush chairs, not even pretending to study, just trying to stay ahead of the agony. During the bad months she cannot even get out of bed, and she lies still, rocked with hot red waves, shivering with fever, falling in and out of consciousness. When she comes to, sometimes there will be a mug of elfroot tea waiting for her, a kind word spoken in a soothing voice, a gentle hand upon her back, urging her to sit up and drink.

It’s one of the bad months. “Lark,” someone says, “it’s time to have some more tea.”

She unseals her eyes. Her room lies in shadows, with only a few shafts of sunlight coming in from the heavily curtained windows. The air is close and thick and smells like a sickroom, but Lark knows she isn’t ill, at least not according to the healers in the Circle. Lark remembers the first time this ever happened, when her moon cycle first crushed her and made her black out in the middle of a hallway. _There is a period of blankness, then light and sound and the sensation of her insides quivering with how hard she’s cramping; a moan, hers, and then one of the healing arts instructors with a steaming mug._

_“Drink,” she’s told, and Lark does. The elfroot numbs her mouth and her tongue and everything below her throat, and the next thing Lark recalls is waking in her own room, with Thea sitting worriedly by her bedside, another mug of tea in her hands, lukewarm._

“Can you sit?” Thea asks, and there’s her gentle hand, and a soothing sound in her warm, motherly voice, so mature for a girl of only sixteen. “I put some honey in it for you, to help it get down faster.”

Lark nods, and with effort, pushes herself up, gets onto her elbows. Thea steadies the mug, tipping it carefully, and Lark sips loudly, her lips making intermittent contact with the liquid. It’s sweet, almost cloyingly so, but she swallows it and keeps swallowing until she can’t anymore.

She falls back onto the bed with a muffled thump. Thea sets the mug down, leaning over to rub circles on Lark’s back. She talks quietly, filling the time until the elfroot tea takes effect, telling Lark about all the research she’s missing. None of it particularly interests her except for the classes on anatomy and healing magic, but Thea talks anyway, and Lark listens until her pain subsides to a barely manageable throbbing in her stomach and thighs.

“I think I can get up.” 

Thea nods, then stands, allowing Lark room to struggle to her feet. The elfroot tea has taken the edge off the pain, but using it is akin to putting out a match with a bucket of water. Her entire body is somewhat uncoordinated, and it takes Lark effort just to walk, to move her feet and body and balance so that she doesn’t fall and injure herself. That was another thing she had learned, that first time: with elfroot at that concentration, walking was an entirely impossible task.

Lark can sense Thea trying her best not to hover as she goes from bed to washroom, clutching at anything solid along the way. She can also sense her friend watching her carefully, noting every minor stumble, every hitch in her step. Thea, unlike Lark, is already on her way to being a master alchemist, and each month when she mixes the elfroot tea she does something different, adds something, subtracts something, uses Lark’s responses as a barometer for what she needs to change. Over the years - Lark has given her at least thirty-six opportunities - the tea has improved greatly, and Lark is thankful for a such a dedicated friend. 

Lark disappears into the washroom, changes her clothes while hunched over, a hand to her abdomen. When she comes out she sees that Thea is scratching away at a piece of paper, brown eyes thoughtful, most likely recording changes in formulation for the tea. She considers telling Thea not to put any honey in it, but decides against it, for now.

“Are you ready?” Thea asks, finishing her last calculations, setting the paper and quill down.

Lark nods. When she speaks, her voice is strained. “I think so. Was anyone there when you passed by?”

Thea shakes her head no. “It was mostly empty. I don’t think anyone will bother you today.” She takes Lark’s arm, links elbows with her. “And if anyone does, I’ll poison their tea.”

Lark smiles and tries not to lean too hard on her friend, but she’s feeling so weak, and Thea is strong and capable. It’s just something Lark is used to by now. Thea is and always will be everything Lark isn’t. Thea is effervescence to Lark’s dullness, bravery to her cowardice; Thea is athletic and lithe while Lark is scrawny and clumsy. Thea is pretty: pretty now, but gorgeous later, while Lark looks like an oversized doll. Thea is vivacious, Lark hears the teachers say, and Lark, Lark is _haunted_ , has been haunted since the first day she arrived with her torn, dirty dress, long, tangled hair, and perpetually sad eyes.

Thea is everything Lark isn’t, and Lark loves her for it. For her, for her one and only true friend, Lark would do anything.

*** *** ***

Lark meets Gavin on her sixteenth birthday.

Or what she thinks is her sixteenth birthday. The Dalish do not use calendars the same way that humans do; Lark’s mother only said she was born in the summer under a new moon, the sky black and glittering with stars, and that when she came out she wailed so loudly that the aravel’s sails shook. It was warm then, she said, warm enough to lay in the grass afterwards and hold her skin to skin, warm enough to sleep without a blanket. Lark counts her birthday at the beginning of the summer, the day after Kios first shows itself.

On her birthday, Lark is granted an extra half-bell of time after curfew is sounded. She walks the halls slowly, slippers soft against the rugs on the stone floor, enjoying the solitude, or what solitude there is with Templars standing watch. She wanders, her feet taking a path of their own, and thinks about nothing and everything: the quietude of night and relief from the day, her apprenticeship in the healing wards, where she practices the most basic spells and tends to the simple physical ailments.

Her path takes her past the doors of the chantry, which even at this hour are standing wide open. The walls inside are aglow with candlelight, and Lark can see a single figure kneeling in front of Andraste, head bowed in prayer. Curious, she approaches, and as she does she notes the new silvered armor, bathed in dusky orange light, and dark curls, tightly wound, cropped close. She hears a voice, baritone, pleasant, speaking the Chant, and for the first time in her life she is completely, utterly entranced by it.

She must have made some noise, for he turns, looks over his shoulder. Lark gasps as his eyes meet hers - _green_ , they’re so green - and reflexively, she puts a hand to her mouth. He is a vision, beautifully dark-skinned, body highlighted in flickering fire, all cheekbones and forehead and strong, straight nose. He is flame and light, holy and pure, and his eyes are green, so green.

He rises to his feet, faces her. His shy smile breaks across a wide, gentle mouth. “Pardon me,” he says to her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Lark wants to say something back along the lines of _no, how could you startle me, it’s the other way around,_ but all she can do is stare at him wordlessly, hand still pressed to her mouth.

He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, clears his throat. “It’s past curfew. Might I escort you back to your room?”

She shakes her head no. When she speaks, her voice is light, whispery. “It’s… it’s my birthday, ser, I was just…”

“Oh!” Another smile, this time one that lights up his face. “It’s my birthday also! Happy birthday.”

“And to you.” Lark looks away, her cheeks beginning to warm. Aside from Thea, no one has wished her a happy birthday, even the Knight-Lieutenant from whom she had to request the extra time.

They stand, the silence stretching out between them. Lark catches her tongue between her teeth, chews on it, wishes she had enough social graces to know what to say. Years ago, before the Circle, she might have known.

He speaks, breaking the silence. “What is your name?”

She tries to look at him, but doesn’t quite manage. “Lark.”

“Gavin.” Another smile, white and flashing. “Pleased to meet you, Lark.” A pause, then words rushing out of him. “Might you...want to pray? I apologize for wasting your precious time on your birthday.”

Lark shakes her head again. “No, thank you ser, I was… I made my devotionals earlier in the day.” She has done no such thing. “I was just passing by before returning to my rooms.”

Gavin walks up to her, offers his arm. “Might I have the pleasure of escorting you, then?”

He is tall, tall to her; if she wanted to look him in the face, she’d have to crane her neck back. Lark follows the lines of his neck as they disappear into his armor, extrapolates the rest, knows that he is youth-slender underneath, and probably not much older than she. He is a newly arrived Templar then, fresh from his vigil and knighting, and without any knowledge of what it means to be seen with her.

But no matter how much she tells herself that she is better off alone, with only Thea and her studies for company, she still finds that she craves contact and interaction, even if it’s something like being ushered back to her rooms by a Templar. So Lark takes the proffered arm, slips fingers sparrow-light into the crook of his elbow, and walks back to her rooms. She speaks only when necessary: _left here, down these stairs, right at the corner_ , and he nods his deference to the other Templars as they pass.

Gavin raps smartly against her door when they arrive. Thea answers it, yawning, already in her nightgown, her hair in loose raven waves around her shoulders. She freezes upon seeing Lark with Gavin, and Lark counts no less than three emotions passing over her face. Shock and disbelief. Curiosity. Slyness, then back to curiosity and finally to calm. “Good evening ser!” she greets Gavin, perhaps a bit more cheerfully than Lark can understand.

“Good evening,” Gavin replies, then turns to Lark. “Your rooms, my lady.”

Lark flushes so hard that her scalp tingles, and it takes a moment before she can say anything because emotions are flooding her. Memories, her face bouncing off the wall, _Lady Wisp! Lady Wisp!_ Panic. It has been four years since anyone called her a lady.

“Ser. I am no lady.” It’s all she can manage.

“My apologies. I’ve offended you.” 

Lark feels the touch of leather gloves on her fingers, and realizes that she is clutching his elbow, fingers white-knuckled upon his arm. With difficulty she removes herself, pushes past Thea into the room, not bothering to give her thanks. Thea does it for her instead, thanks Gavin graciously, then shuts the door and turns to her.

“Lark, what in Andraste’s name was that?”

Lark shakes her head, sinking down onto her bed, hand clutching her chest. “I can’t… I don’t want to talk about it, Thea.”

“Can we talk about the fact that a dangerously good-looking Templar just walked you back to your door on your birthday, at least?”

Trembling, her breath coming unevenly, Lark manages a half-nod, half-shake. “Yes. No. I don’t know. Think nothing of it, Thea. He was just doing his duty.”

“Oh, Lark.” Thea sits down next to her, wraps her arms around Lark’s shoulders, and gives her a hug. “Lark, wouldn’t it be nice to dream? You should allow yourself to do that, every now and then.”

Lark leans against her friend for a moment. Then, straightening, she frees herself gently from the embrace. “I do dream, Thea,” she says.

After a moment, she continues. “But what’s the point, knowing who I am?”

“Lark.” There is gentle rebuke in Thea’s voice, and nothing else. They sit in silence until the candles burn low.

*** *** ***

That year, Lark learns how deeply Templars can wound.

There is a new Knight-Commander in the Circle. Whereas the old one was willing to look away regarding interactions between Templars and mages, the new one is strict, overly so, imposing new rules and regulations upon the mages’ daily lives. With him are new Templars to replace some of the old ones, and gradually as the months pass, Lark sees friendly faces disappear, hard new ones taking their place.

Gavin remains. Lark sees him only in passing, usually at the library. Sometimes he offers her a secret smile, but she hurries past, pretending not to see him. He is still courteous, and when Thea is with her she needles Lark lightly about him, tries to encourage her to make eye contact at the very least.

Lark’s studies continue apace in the healing wards. She has found an affinity for healing, an innate, instinctive understanding of how the body works, how magic works upon it to effect change. If Lark closes her eyes she can imagine human and elf anatomy vividly, see in her mind’s eye skin unmarred with the delicate tracery of veins underneath. She can delve deeper, past layers of flesh, into red, striated muscle and fatty viscera, slice right down to gleaming, shiny tendons and strong white bone.

It goes without saying that the blood calls to her.

She can feel it. She can feel it pulsing in arteries, whooshing hither and thither, speaking to her of life, of power beyond her own. She can sense it being flung into capillaries, keeping the life-spark alive with exchanges of energy; she can follow a path of it anywhere, find snags and snarls, clots and infections that other healers would be hard-pressed to discover.

It’s this knowledge that Thea calls upon one night when she pounds on the door, startling Lark out of her reading. She opens it and Thea fairly tumbles inside, pulling two other girls with her. Lark doesn’t know them well, but one of them is bruised and battered, half-conscious, her robes ripped.

“Lark, please help her,” Thea pleads. She helps the girl lie down on the bed. “Please. It was - Ser Lowick. No one can help her but you. We can’t go to the healing wards. Please, Lark, please.”

Lark rises from her chair, her heart beginning to pound, alarm rising in her. She goes to the girl, whispers, “May I?” and presses her palms to her shoulders, questing.

Lark has to remove her hands before her fingers cause bruises. “I can heal her,” is all she says before she summons up her magic, a cool blue glow surrounding her. “Thea, she will need some of your tea.”

Thea nods and goes to her desk, opening drawers, pulling ingredients out. Lark turns her attention back to the girl - Lynne? Lissa? - and touches her softly on the face, the pad of her forefinger just barely brushing the biggest, puffiest bruise. “Shhh,” Lark says, “this will be but a moment.”

Lark fights to keep the anger down, fights to keep her mind clear of the rage that is building, intensifying. She fights to focus as her own memories begin crowding her, sends healing magic to repair burst blood vessels, knit flesh, mend bone. _Ser Lowick,_ she thinks, seething, the blue glow of her magic growing brighter until she can see nothing but misty light in front of her eyes. _Ser Lowick,_ she thinks again, unmindful of the sudden painful cry of her patient, Thea’s concerned exclamation. “You’re hurting her, Lark!”

“I am not,” Lark tells her friend. “She already hurts, but she is numb to it. It’s coming back now as I heal.” That is not the precise truth, but close enough, and with a discipline she didn’t know she possessed, Lark wrenches herself away from dark thoughts, occupies herself with the restoration of torn, private flesh.

Her magic subsides, leaving the girl weak and trembling but whole. “The tea,” Lark says tiredly, and puts a hand out to steady herself on Thea’s bedpost. “To help her stay calm. To help her sleep. Keep watch on her tonight. The Fade will not be kind to her.” Lark is exhausted, her legs barely holding her up.

“Let’s get her back to her room,” Thea says, packing a small bag with herbs and a mug. “Thank you, Lark, Maker bless you. I’ll be back in a little while.”

They leave. Lark collapses on her bed, feeling her heartbeat rushing in her ears. She takes a few deep breaths, makes an effort to calm the dizziness that is now assailing her. In seconds, she falls asleep.

Her slumber is tinged with crimson that night, and she dreams of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that comments are the fuel that keeps writers going!


	3. 9:35 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Rape and sexual assault.

It all begins with a few whispered words and a scrap of paper.

Lark has become a permanent fixture in the library, spending long hours hunched over books, reading by the fire, laying on her stomach with chin propped up on elbows, engrossed in text. In the months since her late-night healing session, Lark has found her knowledge of healing to be utterly lacking. The healers under who she apprentices have, to her, only a rudimentary understanding of the body and its capabilities, with no vision as to how the systems work together, how beautifully everything synthesizes, how almost nothing is wasted in the thrumming balance known as a living person. To them, things are compartmentalized, and injuries are faults to which magic may be broadly applied. For them, it is more interesting to debate the type of spell needed to stop the flow of bleeding from a deep gash while also forcing the layers of skin to knit together. For Lark, the healing comes by diverting blood from the wound, sending her magic to coax the cut closed from the bottom up, using a combination of her magic and the patient’s energy reserves to speed the body’s natural healing process.

As a result, those she heals recover more fully than others, regain themselves more wholly in body, with little to no residual pain. Her mentors chastise her for keeping patients longer and prolonging the process. Why heal that way when a general healing spell, backed by a lyrium potion, will do the same thing with less recovery time? So Lark demurs, eating their knowledge and vomiting it back out, taking care of the small ailments with the same healing spell that would be used to treat a heart attack, an inflammation of the bowels, or a fracture.

It pains her to do so. The way she heals uses less power, requires less lyrium, gives better prognoses, but Lark has found that the Circle is obstinate and stubborn, unwilling to bend itself out of its rigid shape and explore new avenues in an artform long-thought fully mapped. She heals their way, but _discovers_ her way. She sends magic racing along blood vessels, over skin and into muscle and bone, learns her patients’ bodies in a way they will never know. She marvels at how similar every person is and at the same time, how different. Blood vessels diverge at varying points, bone length differs, even how the organs fit into the body cavity aren’t exactly the same across her patients.

And then there are the defining things, the sad things for which she cannot offer a cure. There is a darkness building in one of the mages, and though Lark does not know what to call it, she knows that eventually it will grow and burst, flooding his body with poison, poison that begets poison, and he will die. In another, a Templar prone to agonizing headaches, she knows there is something amiss with her fluids, and it is nothing she can fix; she can only give something for the pain, a packet of Thea’s elfroot tea spiked with embrium extract, and some magic to massage the part of her head where dreamless sleep rests.

Lark frequents the library to answer her endless questions, walking the floor-to-ceiling stacks, wandering the unused corners, seeking forgotten medical knowledge. Someone, some time, has to have healed the way she does, has to have written it down somewhere. She searches despite her difficulty with reading, does it even though she knows it will take her twice as long, three times as long as anyone else to take the information in. She came late to her letters at twelve, having only known a few before arriving at the Circle. Her first year everyone thought she was a mute idiot, only at the Circle to protect others from herself, and that she was a sure guarantee for the rite of Tranquility, if she even made it to her Harrowing.

She has proven them wrong again and again, those others who would hate her for her perceived dullness, because she is not the same as they, not interested in forming multiple friendships, not interested in romance, not interested in lively discussion or gossip. She is closed off and prefers it that way, takes her victories solemnly and without fanfare, celebrates grimly when she triumphs, finding the solution to a problem no one else can solve. Lark is unfriendly and aloof; she is haunted, after all. She wears the descriptor like a badge, uses it as a barrier, protects herself from being hurt in places she cannot heal.

Lark sits in the library, books piled around her, and reads, her right forefinger drawing painstakingly across lines of text over and over, her lips moving as she tries to sound out the words. The anatomy books are easy, just pictures with names on them. Lark doesn’t need the names to know what the pictures depict. Those images she memorizes right away, memorizes and internalizes by holding her eyes closed, magic directed towards herself. She can see the truth of the pictures as she follows blood in and around her organs, rides the packets of energy along to fingertips and hair follicles and that peculiar gel inside her eyes. 

Words, though, words are hard, and Lark is impatient with her slow reading when her mind is so voraciously hungry for knowledge. _Ischemic_ is the word, but she is not sure how it’s supposed to be pronounced, only that it means the blood can’t go where it needs to, and the body will die without it. _Ischemic,_ Lark sounds out, not realizing that she’s speaking aloud. _Is...che…_

“Ischemic.” That baritone voice, by her elbow.

Lark starts with a shriek, jumps, flaps what feels like three feet up in the air. She puts a hand to her chest when she comes down, jittery, and tries to calm herself. She looks up, glares at the offender.

It’s Ser Gavin. Lark starts a second time, gasping, shying away from the Templar instinctively, leaning away so hard that she almost falls from her chair. She stares at him, her eyes wide, her breaths coming fast and uneven, fingers digging hard into her sternum.

He is almost as startled as she, it seems. “I’m sorry!” he exclaims, then lowers his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d frighten.”

Lark focuses on breathing, robbed for words.

Gavin flushes, his cheeks darkening. “I just thought… I saw you working through your letters, and I thought I might help.”

She finds she can’t do anything but blink up at him. Slowly, the tension in her face eases, and she rights herself in her chair. She is close to him now, has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

Gavin speaks again, clearly flustered. “Pardon me for intruding upon you, Lark, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ll keep to my own. I’m sorry.”

Lark lowers her eyes, chews on her tongue, thinks of all the reasons why she shouldn’t talk to Templars. But the lure of knowledge is strong, too strong to resist. She extends a finger and places it underneath the word in question.

“Ischemic,” Gavin whispers, and Lark nods, not looking at him. After a moment, he walks away, resuming his patrol of the library.

The next time he returns, Lark has a piece of paper lying on the table for him, a word written out in her cramped, labored hand. Her letters will always be malformed, her strokes out of order, and her penmanship will always be atrocious, but Gavin says nothing, looks only at the paper, and says, “Phlegmatic.”

The round after that: “Unguent.”

And after that, with eyebrows raised: “Calorifacient.”

“Calorifacient,” Lark murmurs to herself as Gavin leaves. “Calorifacient.”

It doesn’t occur to her until later that Gavin has been watching her for some time.

*** *** ***

“Lark, wake up,” Thea says softly, pushing at her shoulder. “Wake up, we have to go.”

Lark tries her best to open her eyes but the pain is a throbbing knife in her stomach. She hasn’t been sleeping so much as _existing_ , holding on until it gets better, pressing both hands to her midsection, curling in on herself, letting her forehead rest on the open book in front of her. It’s one of the bad months, and Thea’s tea has worn off early. She feels nauseous.

“It’s almost curfew, Lark.” She can feel Thea standing next to her, hear her robes rustling as she packs up books and papers.

“Birthday,” Lark manages, throat closed and tight. She groans. “I have time.”

Thea sighs, exasperated. “Lark, you can’t be serious. It’ll take us forever to get back in your condition.” More papers rustle. Then, “What’s this?”

Lark pays no attention. Her cramps are intensifying again, the entire lower part of her body tensing and contracting. She moans, vocalizes on a hum, her voice rising and falling with the rushes of agony. Weakly, she lifts up her head, bangs her face against the book, does it again, then again and again and again. 

It _hurts_. She wants to cry.

“Lark, stop!” Thea’s hands grab her shoulders, and she is pulled into a fierce hug. “I know it’s your birthday but you are in _no_ shape to be out here. Let’s get you back, and I’ll brew some more tea for you.” Thea lets Lark’s body drape against her as she considers her options.

“Need any help with your dead weight, Thea?” Lark doesn’t recognize the voice, but that’s not surprising.

“Sod off, Jareth.” Thea’s arm jerks in what is probably a crude gesture.

“On your head be it then. Why you’re friends with _her_ , no one knows. You should just leave her here.”

Lark feels Thea bristle. “I’d rather eat a Templar’s gauntleted fist than accept your help. Piss off.” Lark hears footsteps retreating. Thea mutters, “Arsehole.” 

“He’s right.” With effort, Lark sits up, grabbing the table and using it for leverage. “Just...leave me.” There were worse things than being abandoned at the library.

“I’m going to chalk that statement up to feminine moods,” Thea says acidly. “Come on, on your feet. Lean on me.”

Lark leans on Thea, leans on her and shuffles, stumbles, shambles down hallways that feel too long and empty. Thea says nothing, but Lark can feel her friend’s anxiety, sense the worried expression that pulls down at the corners of her lips and furrows her brow. She’s thinking about the Templars and what they might do if they’re caught out past curfew. 

Suddenly, Thea says, “Lark, I think you have an admirer.”

“What?” The notion is downright ludicrous. “Very funny. I’m not in the mood.”

Thea gives her an unreadable look, continues. “Why would I joke about something like this? Really Lark, it hurts to see how little you value yourself. There was a note hidden among your papers. It said ‘happy birthday.’”

Lark almost trips. _Gavin._ It has to be.

“Oh, you know who it is then? What have you been keeping from me?” Thea gives her a half-smile. 

“Nothing, I swear it.” Lark swallows, forces her queasiness back. “It’s... not an admirer’s note, just...from someone I share a birthday with. A Templar.” Truthfully, she’s alarmed that Gavin has remembered. Lark is uncomfortable with being noticed, and doubly uncomfortable at being noticed by a Templar. She wonders if their little library game is just a way for him to keep track of what she’s doing. It’s troubling.

Thea lowers her voice. “A Templar? Lark…”

“I know.”

“...be careful.”

And then nothing is said after that, because another round of cramping hits her, hits her so hard that Lark crumples to her knees, her vision graying out at the edges. She manages to gasp a little air, sees sparks of light swirling in front of her eyes, multiplying and growing in brilliance until her field of vision is completely obscured. Faintly, as if from far away, she hears Thea’s voice, panicked. “I can’t see, Thea,” Lark whimpers, right before the world goes black.

She comes to slowly, consciousness flickering on like a ghost-light. She is being held, her head propped against something hard and cold, lolling gently with the steady, swaying gait of whomever is carrying her. A Templar, she realizes vaguely, it has to be a Templar, why else would metal be digging so uncomfortably into her back?

Lark tries to open her eyes but they’re so heavy, and her pain is thick and dense in her body. There is so much hurt she thinks she must radiate it, give off a shadowy aura of it, distort the air around her with mirage-like waves of suffering. After much struggling she is able to open her eyes just a touch, and look up.

Lark passes out again, but not before green eyes meet hers. “Happy birthday,” he whispers, for her ears only.

*** *** ***  
Summer passes into autumn, and something has changed among the Templars, some breach of protocol that is not being enforced, because Lark finds herself opening her door to more and more injured mages. _Ser Ambrose,_ some of them weep as she heals, white-lipped, livid. _Ser Evert,_ one of them tells her, and Lark inhales sharply when she pulls up the robe to see the damage. She lays on hands, sends her magic into flesh, and for the first time, Lark closes her eyes, seeks out the foreign invaders, looks for their target in order to eliminate it. It’s so small but if Lark leaves it alone the problem will spiral out of control, so she pulls a little bit of power from rough, bloodied skin, destroys the egg so that nothing will happen.

But something is happening. More and more of their peers are risking themselves to sneak to Thea and Lark’s door, braving the wrath of the Templars who are supposed to be protecting them, but who are only interested in protecting themselves. Lark heals - she heals her way, the other way attracts too much attention - heals and heals the physical hurts. Thea talks, always the same words coming out of her mouth: _it’s not your fault, we will make this better, it’s not your fault, never your fault, don’t you dare blame yourself._

Thea grows more and more angry, becomes colder and harder as more rumors of mistreatment and abuse reach her. Lark, too, is angry, but doesn’t know what to do about it other than continue healing. She is furious, but the emotion stays caged inside her, turning over on itself, a burning rage that only knows exponential growth.

“The Circle is not safe,” Thea grinds out one night after everyone has gone. “The system is not working. The Libertarians are right.”

Lark doesn’t know what to say.

Opportunity presents itself soon afterwards. Lark is in the infirmary when the Tranquil in charge of intake informs her that Ser Lowick is waiting. Lark fights to keep her breathing calm and her face impassive as she says _I’ll have a look at him, what’s the problem?_

It turns out that he has acquired a cut during sparring, a long cut on the forearm that’s bleeding merrily. As he sits in the exam room he watches her, pale eyes turned to her, weighing her, predatory. Lark fights down the alarm, ignores the hairs standing up on the back of her neck, goes to him with fresh towels so that he might apply pressure.

Ser Lowick’s breath is hot and moist against the inside of her elbow when she touches his shoulder to begin her examination. Lark shudders, wanting to shuck her skin and crawl out of it, wanting to grab any hard object at hand and hit him with it. He stares at her with those icy eyes, exhales long and openmouthed, his breath stirring the fine hairs on her arm.

Lark’s anger, which she has been holding so tightly, roars to life inside her.

Ser Lowick is an older Templar, and Lark can see the ravages of lyrium addiction in his body. There are subtle changes in the brain; the heart is enlarged and unhealthy; the bowels are not emptying properly. An idea comes to her suddenly: it is desperately hare-brained, but it might work. It might work because in this room, Lark holds the power. Here in the infirmary, she is untouchable, inculpable.

“Good health,” she lies. “Show me your arm and in a minute you’ll be on your way.”

“Take your time,” Ser Lowick says, pulling the towel off and raising his arm. Too quickly - his fingers brush against Lark’s upper arm. She inhales loudly through her nose, looks away.

Just as well, for what she is about to do is more complex than anything she has tried before. Lark calls up her magic, her hands glowing blue. She holds them above the cut and begins executing the healers’ favored all-purpose spell. At the same time, carefully, oh so carefully, she draws the slightest bit of magic from his blood, drains it slow against the misty, healing light.

She must act quickly, decisively, confidently. There is no time for second guessing. As the healing spell peaks and begins to subside, Lark sends out her borrowed, blood-born power, slips a tendril of it into Ser Lowick’s body and weaves it up along one of the major veins that goes to the heart. She splits the tendril and feathers it out into the blood vessels, seeking. 

There: a bit of hardness in the walls, a perfect place for her to sing sweetly to the blood, tell it to slow down, clump together, take a rest. Lark exhausts what little magic she’s stolen, hopes that her plan will work, that it won’t work; swears vengeance for abuses done, swears vengeance for the way he’s looking at her now, like she is already naked and crying before him.

Lark forces a smile. “That’s it, Ser Lowick, you’re good as new.”

“That’s a good girl.” Ser Lowick reaches out, his forefinger crooked, and brushes it along her chin. 

It’s all Lark can do not to seize her magic and light him on fire. “Ser. The Tranquil will see you out, Ser.”

Ser Lowick’s eyes linger on her as he leaves. Lark trembles, feeling unclean. She remembers the alienage, and her face rebounding off the wall. 

Three days later, Ser Lowick is found in his rooms, having died of a heart attack in his sleep.

Lark smiles darkly when she hears the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please feel free to leave me a comment with what you think! I don't bite. Lark might, but I won't.


	4. 9:36 Dragon

“Lark, no surname, no clan name. You came to us six years ago, at the age of twelve. Found in the alienage of Amaranthine, transferred briefly to Kinloch Hold, then transferred here to Jainen.” First Enchanter Jendrik looks up from his paper, levels a stern gaze straight at Lark. She shrinks back instinctively but there is nowhere to go; she is sitting in an armchair much too large for her, scooted all the way back, and her feet are dangling in the air. “There’s a note here. Found under suspicious circumstances.”

Behind the First Enchanter stands Knight-Commander Tiernan, and his eyes are the most frightening thing in the chamber. They are a dark blue, mean and narrow, narrow like his interpretation of the Chant, of the rules in the Circle, of the leeway given to mages. Narrow, everything about him is narrow, from his long, narrow face with its high-bridged, bony nose; his lean, narrow body with its impossibly thin waist, evident even under the mail of his hauberk and the flaming sword surcoat; to the way he stands, contained and angry, a narrow slash of a man, slicing through the air.

Lark can’t help how nervous she is in front of them both. Her palms are sweaty and her heart is pounding, pounding even though she is willing herself to calm down, telling herself that no harm will befall her as long as the First Enchanter is here. But it’s no use. She wilts beneath the Knight-Commander’s stare, feels the weight of his will and the threat of his malice crush her.

“Suspicious circumstances,” the First Enchanter repeats. “Such as they are, for all mages. There isn’t much detail in the file. Care to tell us anything?”

Eyes wide, Lark shakes her head almost imperceptibly side to side.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything you’d like to say?” First Enchanter Jendrik leans forward, and Lark has the distinct impression that he _knows_. “Just to clear the air, Lark. You’ve been invaluable to the healing wards and have demonstrated admirable service to the Circle. We are just doing our due diligence. Is there anything you’d like to tell us?”

She picks at her fingers, slides one fingernail under another, feels them grate against each other. “I set fire to a flower,” she says softly. “That’s all.”

Knight-Commander Tiernan cuts in. His voice, like the rest of him, is narrow, forced, somewhat nasal. “And the dead guard found in the alienage the same day? What did you have to do with that?”

First Enchanter Jendrik’s voice carries sharp reproach. “We do not know if Lark had anything to do with that.”

“There were a lot of guards in the alienage that day.” Lark is quiet, subdued. “I didn’t know why any of them were there. I stayed away. They scared me, and I burned the flower.” 

“You had nothing at all to do with the guard’s death, then?” The Knight-Commander steps out from behind the First Enchanter’s chair, comes forward, stands directly in front of her. 

Lark finds in her suddenly a rigidness, a bit of spine, a steel rod that straightens her back and makes her look into the Knight-Commander’s eyes. “Nothing at all,” she tells him, thinking about how the artery ripped, the way the guard looked as he bled his life out on the inside.

The First Enchanter shifts. “Is that all, Tiernan? The girl has answered your question.”

“Just one more.” Knight-Commander Tiernan draws himself up to his full height, inclines his head just far enough to stare superciliously down his nose at her. “Reports say that you saw Ser Lowick in the healing wards three days before he died. Did you find aught amiss during his examination?”

Lark keeps her face calm. Serenity, she needs serenity, not a growing anxious knot in her stomach. “Ser, I am not sure I want to say.”

“Why is that?”

“Ser Lowick came in to be treated for a cut, which I healed. I also performed an examination. At his age…” Her voice trails off, and she looks at First Enchanter Jendrik.

The First Enchanter gestures for her to continue.

She lowers her head, stares into her hands. “The lyrium,” she whispers. “It had done a great deal of damage to his body. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

The Knight-Commander remains silent for a long while, his thin lips folded into a scowl. Finally, with a growl, he dismisses her. Lark looks to the First Enchanter for affirmation.

He nods at her. “Go on, girl. We’re done.”

She gets to her feet, edges past the Knight-Commander, goes for the door to the First Enchanter’s office. The hall outside is full of a heavy stillness, stagnant and thick, strengthened by the high-pile rugs laying on the floor. The stifling feeling is only bolstered by the pairs of Templars at either end of the hall, standing almost inhumanely still. As she walks Lark can feel their eyes on her, taking her measure, finding her wanting.

Lark exits the upper floor of the tower, her slippered feet making no sound upon the stone staircase. As she descends down to the middle, the murmur of a crowd reaches her ears, and she realizes she has walked straight into a mage fraternity meeting.

“Lark!” Thea is on the other side of the common area, gesturing wildly at her. “Lark!”

Lark makes her way over, picking a path through the mages. “I didn’t know you were attending meetings already, Thea.”

Her friend grins at her. “For a while now, observation only. I’m pretty sure I’m going to join the Libertarians. Have you given any thought to it?”

Lark shakes her head no.

“You should,” Thea admonishes her gently. She takes Lark’s hand, waves goodbye to the mages, pulls Lark towards the stairs. “You had a meeting with the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander. Your birthday is coming up. You know that means your Harrowing is near, right?”

Lark doesn’t respond until they reach the bottom floor, where the apprentice chambers are. “No, I didn’t know that. They asked me about… about what happened when I got my magic. And about Ser Lowick.”

Thea harrumphs, but looks around before she speaks. “I’m glad that bastard is dead. Why did they ask you about him?”

“I saw him in the clinic a few days before he passed. They wanted to know if I saw anything wrong with him.” The Knight-Commander wanted to know if she had anything to do with his death; a little part of her had wanted to say _yes, yes I did, I killed that vile man, and I would kill him again if given the chance._

They reach their rooms. Thea pulls out the key to the door and unlocks it, pushing it open and stepping inside. A wave of her arm sets the candles alight, adding to the faint light cast by the glowlamp set into the ceiling of their room. Lark gestures idly at it, and the rune inside comes to life briefly before dissipating. The lamp flares with blue, then white, its luminance growing stronger as the seconds pass.

“And did you?”

Lark shuts the door. “No.”

“Well then, that’s settled. How can you predict a heart attack, anyway?” Thea sits down at her desk, opens a drawer, and takes out a notebook, black, plain. She opens it carefully, bending the spine only as far as she needs to in order to reveal smooth blank paper.

“Is that new?” Lark inches closer, peers over Thea’s shoulder.

Thea nods. “I thought it was about time that I started keeping a master list of my own recipes.” She smiles briefly. “Sort of like a grimoire of my very own. Oh, speaking of books.” Thea reaches into her dress, pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. “I spoke to Gavin. He wanted me to give this to you.”

Dismay. “Thea, you shouldn’t be talking to Templars in front of everyone.” Especially not a certain handsome Templar who always seemed to have library duty whenever she was there.

“Who says it was in front of everyone?” asks Thea smugly, a satisfied grin spreading over her face. “If you decided to talk to him, you could meet there too, and I wouldn’t be stuck with courier duty. Or perhaps you should just tell him to leave you alone so that I could make a move without feeling horrendously guilty.”

“Guilty? Why guilty? Are you feeling guilty?” Lark tilts her head, genuinely puzzled. If anything, she and Ser Gavin are only friends of a sort, friends who communicated via a system of hidden notes and strategically-placed scraps of paper. They are friends, if one could call a guardian, watchdog, and executioner a friend. At any given moment Gavin might be asked to kill her, and that fact alone had put a damper on the relationship. As nice as he is, as helpful and considerate and intelligent as he is, Lark knows she cannot fully trust him, he who probably reports on what she’s doing to his superiors.

Thea laughs. “Lark, dear, you really are the most oblivious. I doubt anyone else in the tower has a relationship like the one you have.”

“It’s not a relationship,” Lark says stiffly. “He watches me. It’s unsettling.”

“Lark, you little fool, and I say that in the most loving way possible. Were I you, unsettling isn’t the way I’d put it.” Thea shakes her head, her expression mournful. “An entire Tower full of girls who would fall at his feet, and he’s got you. I honestly do not know who is dumber, you or him. Andraste preserve us all.”

Lark crosses her arms, scowling darkly. “Are you going to give me that paper?”

Laughter bursts out of Thea, pealing brightly against the walls of their room. “Here, just take it! You two are hopeless. If you’d talk to him the way you do to me, you could work a lot of things out. I suggest it.” She holds out the piece of paper.

Lark does her best not to snatch it; instead she extends her arm, plucks it deliberately from Thea’s grasp. “I don’t want to talk to him. I’m happy just talking to you.”

A sigh, then a smile. Thea rises from her chair, folds Lark into a hug. “You have a chance to double the number of people who care for you. Why don’t you take it?”

“I don’t see it the way you do, Thea. Besides, you’re the one who warned me against talking to Templars. I hold to that advice.”

“Don’t talk to Templars _except_ Gavin. He’s different. He actually believes in the ideals of the Order.” Thea heaves another sigh. “I can see that this is making you uncomfortable. I’m done talking about it. Just go to the library, he’s probably waiting for you.”

Lark takes the out, and exits.

*** *** ***

Gavin is indeed at the library when she arrives, standing at his customary spot by the fire. His eyes settle on her when she walks in the door, the scrap of paper clutched in her fist. She drops her gaze quickly, looks at the carpet, the empty tables and chairs, the aisles and aisles of books, anything but him.

Her table, or what she has come to call her table, is unoccupied. Lark goes to it, leans against it, turns her back to Gavin. She pulls the edges of the paper apart, uncrinkling it from its balled-up state. There is only a series of numbers, call numbers, with a page number indicated underneath.

Lark walks into the stacks, seeking the book in question. When she gets there, she sees that Gavin has selected for her a book on Thedosian mythology. She places a finger on the top of the spine, tips the book back, pulling it out of its home on the shelf. Opening it, she flips to the correct page; there is a small sheet of paper there, folded in half. She takes it out, unfolds it.

> _L,_
> 
> _Per your last rec. on Elven history, I submit this collection of the rarer Thedosian myths. I esp. liked the tale of Alindra and her knight, except for the end._
> 
> _If you’re reading this then that means I spoke to T. She is a treasure. She tells me you have a remarkable singing voice, but aside from a few words here and there, we have not talked. Will you speak to me today? No answer needed._
> 
> _I remain ever hopeful,  
>  G_

Lark’s breath leaves her in a soft puff. She re-folds the note, stows it back into the book, and takes it with her to her table, stopping by the front desk on the way to pick up a sheaf of blank vellum, ink, and freshly-cut quills. She returns to her table and sits, then opens the book back up, takes the note out, flips it over to its blank side.

> _G,_
> 
> _Thank you for the rec. Will read quickly. T. talks too much so I balance her out. What did you think of the Elven myths?_
> 
> _I have a question for you. I will get to the point. Am I one of your charges?_
> 
> _L._

Lark folds the paper into thirds, places it on the table, opens the book, and begins reading. The words flow easily to her now after many months of daily practice; she reads fluently, reads with sheer joy from the act of it. She is now, if possible, a more voracious devourer of knowledge than before, reading anything at hand, her mind open and demanding.

She hears Gavin’s muffled footsteps after about ten minutes, doesn’t look up from the book as he passes by, the note disappearing swiftly into his hand. His steps recede, and she fights the urge to watch him as he leaves on his route, follow him as he takes the familiar path down to the end of the common area and left into the stacks. With a frown, she forces herself to focus on her reading, redirecting her attention with a bit more savagery than needed. No more thoughts of Gavin, no more wondering about his intentions. There isn’t even, Lark tells herself, the thought of a daydream. There is only the text in front of her, and stories to be consumed.

It’s an effort to continue reading, but she does. As time passes Lark finds she can only give at most seventy-five percent of her mind to what’s on the page. Less than seventy-five, closer to fifty, realistically more like twenty-five. She is on a hair-trigger now, hyper-aware of all movement near her, all sounds that might tell her Gavin is drawing near with a reply for her. In all likelihood the answer to her question is _yes_ , that after the first time in the chantry his attention to her has been due to a sense of duty. Most likely, after her questioning in the First Enchanter’s chambers today, the Templars are suspicious of something, of her, of the abilities she has tried her best to keep hidden.

Lark sets her book down, closes her eyes, breathes in deeply, exhales long. _Serenity,_ she tells herself. Nothing has happened yet. And there is nothing she can do until something _does_ happen. In the case that it does, however, Lark will need a contingency plan.

Footsteps again: Gavin’s cadence, the particular way he walks, not too hurried, easy, confident. His heel strikes the floor first; he rolls smoothly from the back of his foot to the front, and no extra energy is wasted in this, the quintessential human motion. In her mind’s eye Lark can see him, arms swinging lightly, head sitting balanced atop the neck. He moves with beautiful economy, and Lark has no doubt that being a warrior is first nature to him, that he lives and breathes its physicality, its grace and power.

She opens her eyes. A folded piece of paper, stark white, edge crisp, whispers down onto the table. Lark waits for Gavin to resume his post by the fire before she reaches for it, trying to be casual, unhurried. He, on the other hand, has no such compunctions. Lark feels his scrutiny of her like the touch of a ray of sunlight through a lens.

> _L,_
> 
> _There are so many stories that I am still trying to get my head around them all. I think I enjoyed Fen’Harel’s tales the most._
> 
> _Are you one of my charges? No. T made mention of your reaction. Do I hound you so? If the answer is yes, then you have my sincerest apologies. That is not my intention. T has told me somewhat of your history, bits and pieces only. I would not cage you._
> 
> _Respectfully,  
>  G_

Lark stares at the note, uncomprehending. _I am not one of his charges. I am not one of his charges. I am not one of his charges._

_Then why…? Do they know…?_

Her hand shakes when she picks up the quill.

> _G,_
> 
> _I appreciate your honesty. I do not understand your attention if I’m not one of your charges. What am I doing that you must watch me? Am I that suspicious? What are you playing at, with all these notes?_
> 
> _T is beautiful and the dearest to me. I think she fancies you. Her opinion of you is high. The match would be a good one._
> 
> _L_

She folds the paper in the opposite direction, smoothes her finger over the crease, tucks the note into the book. She has not finished reading it, but now it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter because she is not one of Gavin’s charges, and none of this makes sense to her. Lark stands, holding the book, and glares at Gavin until he meets her eyes.

Chagrin, mortification, shame, embarrassment, any of these emotions would have been expected, but what Lark sees in Gavin’s face is surprise, surprise and then confusion. He starts towards her, halts himself, looks around. There is no one in the library but them, so he moves, approaches swiftly. When he reaches her he takes the book from her hands, frees it of the note, scans it.

He only looks more confused when he’s done reading. “I’m not playing at anything,” he says haltingly, emotion coloring his voice. “I only thought to get to know you better. Was my regard unwarranted this whole time?”

Lark keeps her mouth shut, only looks up at him. Slowly, she nods.

Gavin swallows. She can see his jaw clench. “So instead you think to drive me towards Thea?”

She nods again. Her hand grips the table, and her fingers press into it, white.

“All this, and still you won’t speak to me.” Gavin sounds defeated. “Very well then. I thought you might return my feelings, but clearly I have misunderstood the situation. I’ll leave you alone.”

Lark chews on her tongue, turns her face away from Gavin. She’s unsure of what she’s feeling; there is a hot and bitter wave rising in her chest, and it makes her think she is about to lose something dear. But this is what she wants: a life uninterrupted, unplagued, free to do what she desires without judgment from others, without her footsteps being traced behind her. A life free of connections but for Thea, a life where she can just be by herself.

Before Gavin, that all seemed possible, even in the Circle. And now…

Lark pushes herself away from the table, leaves Gavin, head bowed, behind her.

*** *** ***

Lark spends her eighteenth birthday in the infirmary, tending to patients.

It’s a slow day. There are a few patients with mild ailments, nothing Lark cannot handle on her own. She is grateful for long, uninterrupted periods of solitude, with only the Tranquil for company, disconcerting as she is. There is something missing about the Tranquil, some connection in their head that has been severed and locked away, the ends of it burned and turned back upon themselves. The wrongness comes to a point in the sunburst brand upon the forehead, and whenever Lark interacts with a Tranquil, she finds it hard to even look at it. It feels like a scab over a pus-filled wound, and there is a pressure behind it, a pressure that Lark has to stop herself from pushing at with her magic.

Lark retreats into the exam room once the waiting room has cleared out, pulls books out from her satchel, sits on the stool and places _A Study of Thedosian Astronomy_ onto the exam table. She opens to her bookmark, sets her elbows on the table and her chin in her hand, and begins reading.

She is partway through the descriptions and stories of midwinter constellations when the Tranquil knocks on the door. “There is a patient in the waiting room,” she intones dully.

Lark doesn’t even look at her, just flaps a hand vaguely in her direction. “Enchanter Artos can see him,” she says.

The Tranquil doesn’t move. “Ser Gavin has asked for you specifically.”

Her skin tightens suddenly into goosebumps; she shivers. “He... you must be mistaken.”

“I do not make mistakes,” the Tranquil tells her flatly. “He has a headache. I will send him in shortly.”

Lark gets to her feet, grabs the book off the table, shoves it into her pack. Her breath ripples through her; she cannot stop twisting her hands together. She stands next to the stool, waits for the door to swing open.

It does, and Gavin is there, taller since the last time she’s seen him, shoulders now broadened enough to fill the space of the doorframe. He is out of his armor, wearing a simple roughspun tunic and leather breeches, his sword belted casually around his hips. For a moment they look at each other, and Lark feels her entire face heating, her face and her neck, her flush creeping farther and farther down until she can feel its prickle at the tops of her breasts.

Gavin moves first, stepping into the room. The Tranquil closes the door behind him, and it’s just the two of them alone for the first time ever. Lark almost forgets to breathe with how close and intimate the situation is, almost has to sit down from the weakness in her knees.

Gavin half-perches on the exam table, maneuvering his scabbarded sword out of the way. “I have a headache,” he announces.

She blinks owlishly at him, not knowing what to do. “Do...do you need a draught of elfroot?”

A small smile. “Not quite what I imagined your first words to me to be, but I’ll take it. Yes, a draught would serve. Perhaps the Tranquil could mix some, and a few extra just in case?”

Lark nods. “I can ask her after your examination.” She blows out a sigh, takes two steps, raises her hand to touch his shoulder.

Only to have her hand grasped by his, turned, brought down, the grip changed so that he is holding onto her fingers, his thumb resting gently over her knuckles. “Lark,” Gavin says softly, and his eyes are upon her. “I don’t actually have a headache.”

He doesn’t let go of her hand, and she doesn’t try to free herself. The sensation is new; Gavin’s fingers are warm upon hers, and she can feel on his skin the callouses from years of swordplay. His thumb moves across the back of her hand in something like a caress, and he draws her near. Lark’s eyes widen, her chest rising bit by bit in a gasp. She pulls her hand away, breaking contact, and puts it behind her back.

“You lied?” she says eventually, her voice dropping to match his in volume.

He smiles again. “I”m a Templar, not Andraste herself. We are only human.” They are close now, close enough to measure in inches the space between them. Gavin produces a folded piece of paper from a pocket in his breeches, holds it out to her. “I thought I might say happy birthday, even if you want nothing to do with me.”

Lark looks down at the paper, unfolds it. She can feel Gavin watching her as she reads.

> _L,_
> 
> _Forgive the subterfuge but this information is important. Burn this as soon as you can. The K-C has begun an investigation into S. Lowick’s death and you are being implicated somehow. I do not know the details as my rank does not allow it. I think it’s preposterous, but the K-C has always been paranoid. Stay safe._

Lark closes her eyes, refolds the paper. She feels a sense of dread creeping over her like a darkening cloud. Her heartbeat quickens, and in the loud stillness she can hear the blood in her ears, rushing, rushing.

“Lark? Lark, are you alright?” Gavin’s hand on her shoulder startles her and she gasps, eyes flying open.

He is...concerned, for her.

Lark resolves right then not to tell Gavin the truth, that she will do everything within her power to preserve his innocence. Gavin, the dear, sweet man, will never know that the Knight-Commander’s hunches are correct, will never know that she is guilty of everything the Knight-Commander suspects.

“I’m…” A deep breath, then another. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Lark’s dress doesn’t have pockets. An idea occurs to her, and she slips the note under her foot, into her shoe.

“Could I have that draught now?” Gavin says, a bit too loudly. Lark is momentarily puzzled, but recalls the Tranquil sitting in the room right outside.

“Ah - yes, Ser, I’ll be but a moment.” Lark goes to the door, opens it, pokes her head out. “Could I have a fresh packet of elfroot draughts mixed, please?” she calls out. “Ser Gavin’s headache is quite severe, and he will need them all.”

The Tranquil nods and gets up, removes herself from the waiting room into the potions antechamber down the hall. Lark waits until the door has shut before pulling her head back in and closing the door.

Gavin gestures for her to come near. “There’s more,” he says to her urgently. “Lark, I wanted to be the first to tell you. Your Harrowing is imminent. The orders went out today.” He pauses to gauge her reaction, but she is holding herself stock-still, not even blinking. “Thea’s too, but yours is first. And…”

Gavin takes in a breath, sighs it out. When he speaks, he sounds pained. “I’ve been assigned the killing blow, should you… should you be unsuccessful.”

 _That_ gets a reaction from her. Something hot and stinging sweeps across her eyes; she turns her head, looks away. _Knight-Commander Tiernan,_ she thinks. _It’s a test. He knows._

A tear wells up in the inside corner of her eye, and Lark dashes it away before it can fall. She takes in an uneven breath. “Gavin,” Lark says, and she tastes his name for the first time on her tongue, feels how easily her mouth conforms to it, how the consonants flow from one to another, effortless. “Strike true, if it comes down to it.”

His eyes are blazing green when she looks at him. “I swear it,” he says, voice tight, choked.

There is silence. A thought occurs to Lark, and she smiles with black humor. “Happy birthday,” she says.

Gavin laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _know_ y'all got somethin' to say 'bout this chapter. SAY IT!


	5. Late Justinian, 9:36 Dragon

The steps go up, up and up and up, up to the top of the tower, slanting higher in a folded zigzag broken by small landings. Lark, accompanied by two Templars, one to each side, begins counting the steps out of boredom, but gives up once she passes one hundred. Above her lie at least another one hundred, and more besides, more stairs than she ever wants to climb.

But climb them she must, at whatever speed. Today is the day of Lark’s Harrowing, and she will go, or face Tranquility.

The chamber is located at the very top of the tower. She arrives, breathing hard, leg muscles sore and burning. One of the Templars pushes the door open and motions for her to go inside. The room is windowless, high-ceilinged, lit by glowlamps and candles and whatever fitful sunlight that can filter in through thick, stained-glass skylights. It is mortar and stone all around, and in the center sits a low table on a faded, worn rug, stained with shadowy blotches. Beside it stands a Templar, back turned to her, and for a second Lark hopes that it isn’t Gavin, that the close-cropped black hair and brown skin are not his.

The Templar turns, salutes. Lark holds Gavin’s gaze as steadily as she can as she is propelled forward by a rough hand on her shoulder. She holds his gaze, tells herself to quit shaking, reminds herself that physical reactions give rise to emotions, not the other way around. Lark is not afraid because she is not trembling; Lark is not afraid because she can breathe deep and easy, without the chittering hitch of her diaphragm interfering. Lark is not afraid because her knees aren’t wobbly in the slightest. Lark’s palms are perfectly dry and not sweaty and her heartrate isn’t elevated and she is not, she is _not afraid_ , not afraid of this room lined with plated death, not afraid of the Knight-Commander staring her down with his angry slash of a mouth, not afraid of the slim dagger sheathed at Gavin’s right hip, just long enough to ease into her ribs and find her heart.

Truly, Lark thinks, between the Harrowing chamber and the Fade, the Fade is preferable.

The Knight-Commander himself comes to her, a length of rope in his hands. Wordlessly he binds her wrists, throwing the ends of the rope over itself, tying knots tightly and efficiently. When he is finished he tests her bonds, pulling at them, checking their tightness by trying to slip a finger between the scratchy jute and her skin. Satisfied, he steps back, and motions for Lark to lie down on the table.

She sits down, swings her legs over, tosses her long straight hair to the side as she lies down. The Knight-Commander is handed another length of rope with which he uses to tie her ankles together. Lark ignores him, focuses on emptying her mind and clearing her thoughts. The Veil is thin here, and now that she is on the table she can almost feel the fear, old and residual, hanging in the air like a palpable thing, an enticing feast of emotion on which demons may sup.

It is no wonder then, she thinks, that mages do not survive the Harrowing. The circumstances under which the rite is performed are enough to drive any sane person to demonic possession.

She looks at the ceiling, at the dingy skylights far overhead. Calm, Lark is calm, so calm that she is not herself, she is outside herself, looking down. With a sense of detached curiosity, she watches First Enchanter Jendrik approach, a glass bottle in his hands. It glows a luminous blue, the liquid inside moving and shifting more than it should, as if it’s alive.

“Bear witness,” the First Enchanter says, stepping up to the table. “Let the Harrowing begin.”

As one, the Templars in the room draw their swords. The sinister hiss of metal fills the room, followed by a faint ringing which mutes when swordpoints are gently grounded. Gavin instead frees the dagger from its peace tie, unsheathes it slowly, and grips the hilt with both hands.

First Enchanter Jendrik reaches out, places a thumb gently against her chin, applies downward pressure. Lark blinks once, opens her mouth obediently, waits for the cold, smooth touch of glass, the misty swirl of the lyrium potion on her tongue.

He pours quickly, quickly because this is not the lyrium Lark is used to, quickly because the lyrium explodes into her mouth and bursts into deafening singing. Lark comes back to herself, yells and chokes, tries to spit it out, but Jendrik clamps his hand firmly down on her face, covering her lips with his palm, the side of his hand jammed up underneath her nostrils, cutting off her breathing. The lyrium is fire in her mouth, burning the insides of her cheeks, making her teeth buzz, her tongue swell. Lark tries to scream through the blue that’s blinding her but there is no breath what with the way the First Enchanter is pushing her head into the table.

She writhes in her bonds, rolls from side to side like a snake whose head has been staked into the ground. Lark hears her own muffled moaning faintly through the shrieking cacophony of the lyrium. She can feel the lyrium sloshing in her mouth, and it sends burning cold tendrils of azure into her cheeks, into the large blood vessels beneath her tongue. Swallow, she has no choice but to swallow, and when she does Lark convulses, arches until only her head and heels touch the table, unable still to breathe, her mind wrenched violently away from consciousness.

*** *** ***

Lark opens her eyes to the Fade.

She is in the alienage, standing on the threshold of the tenement she used to call home. Her feet are bare, and when she looks down, Lark can see she’s wearing a dingy shift, once white. It’s the same shift she wore the day she was taken away, with the same ripped, dirty hem fluttering around her knees, the same shapeless silhouette so often used for little girls.

Ahead of her the hovels stand empty, doors open. Lark looks to her left, searching for the _vhenadahl_. In Amaranthine the _vhenadahl_ was still tended to, growing slowly year by year, hard and surviving just like its caretakers, but here in the Fade all Lark sees is a ring of stone surrounding an uneven gray stump, its roots gnarled and crooked, gripping the moss and dirt like so many rheumatic, skeletal fingers.

She walks forward, turns to the right, allows her feet to carry her where they will. Though she knows it’s only a dream, the ground beneath her soles feels solid and real, the dirt of the road grinding itself into the balls of her feet. Lark stops dead in the center of the road, looks up at the sky, and digs her toes into the ground, through the fine layer of sandy dust, into the gritty, barren loam beneath.

It’s a dream, but even so the feeling is _good_ , a balm, a salve for a wound she didn’t realize was open and weeping. Lark has not been outside without shoes for six years, has lived firmly within the human side of her for that entire time. The sensation of her feet in the dirt is _good_ , so connected and elven and _good_. She closes her eyes, closes her hands into fists, keeps her head tilted back with its dark fall of hair hanging down, and breathes so deeply that it feels cyclical, the air going from her into the earth and back out again.

The sound of feet, scuffling in the dirt, breaks the strange silence. Lark straightens and opens her eyes, relaxing her hands, and sees before her a slight elven woman clad all in robes of black. They are well-tailored, with buttons of mother-of-pearl marching down the front in an iridescent line, and over her shoulders is a mantle of crow feathers. Her feet are bare but for the stirrups of black leggings molded over the insteps, and in her hand the woman holds a tall, twisting black staff, a polished orb of jet adorning the top.

Lark knows instinctively that she is looking at herself as she should have been. The woman in black is taller, slightly more fuller figured than the straight lines of Lark’s own body, and her ears, unlike Lark’s, are pointed. Lark looks at herself as she might have been had she had warm food every night and a cozy house in which to live. She sees the dark beauty of her own face, heart-shaped, framed by a cascade of silky midnight hair, her skin smooth and honey-hued, with large, luminous black eyes and a small, slightly upturned nose.

When she looks back down at herself, Lark finds that she now wears the robes and holds the staff. She smiles a little to herself and exerts her will, and the alienage fades away. Around her the Fade swirls, coalesces, rearranges itself into a forest, into which winds a faint animal track.

Lark follows it, the pressure from the butt of her staff causing the underbrush to crackle. The sharp points of twigs dig into her feet as she walks, but she’s used to it after so many years living alone in the woods. She ducks under the large branch that hangs over the path, dodges easily the smaller branches that would snag her clothing and hair.

She knows what she’ll see when she gets to the end of the path: a clearing, planted all over with lush green grass; a small freestanding lean-to, roofed with rushes, with a modest fire pit in front. Beside the shelter there are two poles with a string set between them, and upon the string is draped her white dress.

The clearing is peaceful, quiet. She could stay here for years. Has stayed here for years.

A little bird appears at her feet, brown and streaky, a little crest upon its head. It flaps its wings, flies up to her shoulder, settles in among the feathers of her mantle. “Do you like it?” the lark chirps, tilting its head jerkily to the side, regarding her with one eye.

“Yes, I do,” Lark murmurs. She raises a hand and offers a finger as a perch; the bird accepts and hops on. “Very much.”

“Why don’t you stay for a while?” asks the little bird. Its throat works, and it sings, high-low, high-low.

Lark copies the tilt of the bird’s head. “Haven’t I stayed long enough?”

“Oh no, not at all! You’ve only just gotten here. If you leave I shall be lonely.” The bird trills then, pulling itself up to its full height, puffing out its tufted white breast.

Lark smiles affectionately. “We can’t have that, little one. I’ll stay a bit longer, if you’ll sing me a song. How about it?”

“A bargain! A bargain!” chirrups the lark. “Deal! I will sing for you.”

A nod. “One song, and you have a deal.”

The bird sings. Lark listens politely, applauding when it’s over. “Lovely,” she says to it. “I’m afraid I must go now, though.”

The lark protests. “But you said if I sang, you’d stay!”

She smiles again. “Little bird, I said I would stay for a song. One song. And you have given it to me, quite prettily.” Lark pauses for effect. “Now, if you’d like me to stay a little longer, I must insist that we play a game.”

“How interesting.” The bird twitches its head to the other side. “Very well, what sort of game?”

Lark deliberately keeps her mind empty, does not think about possibilities or what-ifs, both successful and not. She has been presented with an opportunity, and she is willing to take the risk. She takes a deep breath, readies herself. She has prepared as well as she can, studied, read every book she could find since Gavin gave her warning. Lark must be cold now, calculated, and above all, bold. “A game of truths,” she tells the bird. “We will ask each other questions, and answer truthfully, and as long as we are both satisfied with what we hear, I will stay.”

The bird trills its laughter. “What a game! What a delight! What audacity! I will play. May I go first?” Its inhuman eye regards her, the green light of the Fade reflecting bizarrely in it.

Lark inclines her head. “By all means, go right ahead.”

A song erupts from the bird, a series of gulps and squeaks that sound eerily like a cackle. “What fun you are! All right, what is your name?”

“Lark.” She smiles a little. “My turn. What is _your_ name, demon?”

The bird opens its beak, throat working, a raucous sound issuing from it. “My name, mortal? You dare?” Something shifts then, shifts and fuzzes under a power not her own, and the Fade begins changing, the scenery starting to dribble away, like paint being washed off a canvas.

Lark’s smile changes into a feral grin, and she unleashes her will, a whipcrack of intent snapping through the air. Strong, she is strong, has always been strong in order to endure the trials in her life, and she bends the Fade to her desires, seeing clearly in her mind’s eye the lean-to, the washline, each individual blade of grass. Around her, power sizzles, and the Fade _shifts_ again, returning to the scene she set.

Her hand is a blur as it grabs the bird. Lark squeezes it hard, brings it up to eye level. “Your _name_ , demon,” she snarls at it, her voice at odds with the serenity of the clearing. _”I will have it,_ per our agreement, or I will _leave_ , and you will have _nothing_.” She tightens her grip, feeling the grind of bone upon bone.

The bird shrieks, attempts to change its shape, but Lark holds its image firmly, denies it utterly. “Your _name_ ,” she growls one last time. 

“Syncope! Syncope!” cries the bird, trying futilely to wiggle out from her grip. Once again it tries to alter its shape, and once again Lark brings the full force of her will to bear on the demon, negating its effort.

“Syncope.” Lark tastes the demon’s name in her mouth, finds that it is hot and acidic. “I bind you to me now, demon. Your truename is _Syncope_ , and I bind you to my service, to serve me in any capacity I deem fit, until I either release you or end you.” As she speaks the words, a heat passes over her, envelops her, sends fire and acid racing down her veins. With effort, Lark shoves the power out of her body, clears the burning from her insides, partitions it off from her soul so that she will not be possessed.

“No!” the bird shouts, and its voice has become a gravelly, multi-layered bass. “Your truename is Lark and I deny you! Mortal, I deny you!”

Lark laughs harshly, throws her head back and laughs, laughs, laughs. “Syncope, you shall have this truth from me. I have told no one my truename, and you will never know it. Now, demon, you are _mine_ , and I command you to show me your true form, so that I may see what you are.” Lark feels the flapping wings of Syncope’s will beating against hers, but she is greater than it, more powerful than it.

She releases the bird from her hand, drops it on the ground. With a wave she dismisses the scenery; it evaporates into the green mist of the Fade. Before her, the bird is changing, its shape stretching grotesquely out bit by bulbous bit until finally a robed, hunchbacked figure with no face stands before her. Syncope looks at her then, and its face is a pure white light.

“A demon of sloth.” Lark is fascinated. “Of middling power. Well, Syncope, you’ll do for now. I have many questions for you. I believe this agreement will be very good...for me, that is.” Another smile, with teeth this time, and Syncope flinches back. “Be ready for when I call you to service. You are dismissed, for now.” Lark can feel the demon’s howl of anger in her bones as it collapses into fog and dissipates.

Lark closes her eyes then, victorious, and forces herself awake.

*** *** ***

She comes to with a start, nausea slamming into her, bile pressing up into her throat. Lark rolls to her side and retches, vomit splashing onto the table, fountaining onto the floor, glowing faintly with residual lyrium. Another spasm takes her and she retches again, gags at the taste on her tongue, gags and heaves until tears are streaming down her face and she lies limp, exhausted, on the table.

The Knight-Commander nods to Gavin, and Lark feels her bonds being cut. She is boneless now after her trial, tired in both body and mind and soul, and it’s all she can do to maintain consciousness. Syncope is a small, teeth-scraping presence right behind her ear, a thickness in the air only she can feel; for a second she is tempted to draw on its power.

She refuses the urge, rebukes herself for weakness.

“Congratulations, Lark,” First Enchanter Jendrik says, and he is holding in his hand a small silver ring. “You have passed your Harrowing, and are now a full mage of the Circle. Welcome.”

Lark nods once, nods a second time, doesn’t finish it before heavy, dense sleep takes her.

When she wakes Lark finds that she is in a completely new room. It’s larger than her old apprentice quarters, with two beds and two desks, and what looks to be a dedicated washroom. Empty shelves line the walls, and Lark can see, once she pushes herself up to sitting, that her meager belongings have been laid on one of the desks. With surprise, Lark sees that the plain silver band First Enchanter Jendrik had been holding is now encircling her left middle finger. She can feel just the slightest enhancement of power there, a faint thrumming that disappears if she turns her head to try to listen.

Lark slides her legs over the side of the bed, rises to her feet unsteadily, puts out a hand and steadies herself on a bedpost. She sighs after a moment, gathering herself, and shuffles over to the desk. There is, in addition to her personal effects, a utilitarian-looking dagger in a plain, worn sheath, attached to a leather belt that has seen better days. Lark reaches for it, grasps the hilt, pulls the dagger free.

She tests the edge, winces when the sharp blade slices past layers of skin on her forefinger. She watches, waits for the blood to well up, becoming tiny beads of power strung along the line of her sundered flesh.

“They make this too easy,” Lark whispers. She sticks her finger in her mouth, and sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always, always welcome. *evil grin*
> 
> Art by the always amazing [Tigernaute](http://tigernaute.tumblr.com).


	6. Matrinalis, 9:36 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Threat of rape.

The knowledge.

The knowledge pours into her, comes in torrents from Syncope’s mind. There are spells, so many spells she can’t keep track of, incantations that flood her and claim her thoughts ruthlessly when her focus slips. Lark has asked for knowledge, blood magic knowledge, and Syncope does not hold back, barrages her with everything it knows in revenge for being bound, deluges her with it, hoping it will break her.

It does not break her, but for a period of time, Lark is barely functional, walking the halls with shadows under her eyes, her stare blank, her responses lagging seconds after questions have been asked. A reaction to the Harrowing, other mages tell her sympathetically, and Lark is, deep inside, beneath her exhaustion and her racing mind, moved by this small gesture of empathy from her new peers.

For peers they are. Lark has survived her Harrowing, and it elevates her into a social strata she has previously not been able to access nor understand. As a Harrowed mage she now has a common experience, a shared trauma so deep that it erases the petty slights and games of one-upmanship that are common among the apprentices. Here now on the second and third floors of the tower, Lark is accepted, however grudgingly; she is known for her prowess at healing, at times even consulted and asked her opinion on the more complicated cases.

Here now, as a mage, she belongs.

As a mage, Lark notices the loosening of certain restrictions. Curfew is pushed back by several hours, and mages often gather on the landing of the great stairwell that serves as a common area, conversing into the night. Tranquil pass through from time to time running errands, and sometimes Lark even sees a mage leaving the tower with bags packed, staff in hand. The Templars are still ever-watchful, but Lark notices more exchanges between them and the mages, an uneasy ease born of long years of vigilance.

The rooms are different as well. Lark still shares a room with Thea - and for that Lark is so thankful, thankful she can spend more time with her friend, thankful that Thea was and is strong enough to withstand her Harrowing - but their room is no longer connected to another, with a common washroom. For the first time in a long time she can enjoy real privacy, almost. Lark trusts Thea, continues to trust her even though she has been changed by her experiences. Thea post-Harrowing is darker and angrier, less a mother and more a crusader, attending Libertarian meetings as a full-fledged member. Thea has an edge now, a boundary that is noticeable, one that can be pushed and broken through, and Lark fears what is on the other side.

Lark sits in their room that grows more and more empty, sits on the bed, eyes unfocused, and sifts through the knowledge assaulting her.

_Blood wound. Blood slave. Hemorrhage. Blood sacrifice. Blood control. Grave robber. But no healing, no healing...nothing I need, it’s all useless…_

“Lark? Lark!” Thea’s voice, raised, and Thea’s hand, shaking her. Lark comes to with a snap, her eyes focusing upon her friend’s face. Somehow she is lying on her bed, and the tall candle she has set on her table has burned out.

Lark tries to sit up, realizes her arm is asleep. She rolls up awkwardly, makes a face, and rubs at her arm, trying to coax the blood back in, to reawaken the nerves and get them firing again. “I’m sorry, Thea, I must have… must have fallen asleep.”

Thea gives her a strange look. “Your eyes were open, Lark, and you were muttering.”

“Oh.” She has nothing to say in response. “Sorry.”

“You alright?” Thea sits beside Lark, nudges her. “You’ve been acting weird ever since your Harrowing.”

Lark smiles faintly. “Have I? I’ve just been tired, that’s all.”

Thea gives her a look of disbelief. “I can understand being tired for a few days, or even a week. Maker knows it was enough to keep me from sleeping for days. But it’s been _months_ , Lark. What’s the deal?”

She finds again that she has nothing to say.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” Thea looks annoyed now; she folds her arms across her body. “Will you let me at least mix you a sleeping draught, since you’re so tired?”

Lark shakes her head. “I appreciate it, but… no.” A sleeping draught of Thea’s making might very well weaken her control over Syncope, whose presence in her mind is ever raw and angry, venomous. She needs time, more time to ensure that her dominion over it is fixed and unyielding, to make sure it won’t try to slip its bonds somehow and turn her into an abomination. “Please don’t be offended, Thea. I’ve been dealing with some things and I’m not ready to talk about them yet. In the Fade…”

“Oh, Lark.” Thea’s warmth returns, and she gives Lark a hug. “I’m sorry. Yes, of course, the Fade. Take your time about it. I’ll listen when you’re ready. Until then, can you at least feed yourself properly? Your robes were already big on you, now you look like you’re drowning in them. And did you have to pick black?”

“Absolutely, yes.” Lark has picked black everything: black robes, black staff, black boots. The only thing missing is the crow feather mantle. “Why are you surprised?”

Thea sighs. “I’m not surprised in the least, just hoping that you’d pick something more flattering.”

Lark rolls her eyes, her fatigue making her easily exasperated. “Thea. Why would I do that? Can you give up on this already? It’s been years of you making comments about it, and I’m tired of it. I don’t care about looking a certain way, or pleasing certain people. Enough, all right? I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

Thea glares then, stands up and faces her, then glares some more. “You think after all this time knowing you that I’d try to pressure you into doing something completely against your nature?” She puts her hands on her hips, and Lark can see now that perhaps she’s pushed Thea to that point, to that boundary, and soon she will be feeling Thea’s edge, tested against their friendship. “I am not concerned with getting you to conform to any standards except those that you set for yourself. Lark, you never see yourself the way others see you. You think you’ve been a pariah, that no one will be your friend. And in the beginning that might have been true. I protected you then. Now I make excuses for you because they are interested, and you are not. Do you understand that, Lark? They’re _interested._ In _you._ Because of your abilities and your grace under pressure, your generous spirit and your intelligence. They look to you, Lark. They know that you’ll do for them what others cannot.”

She begins pacing, stalking a path back and forth in front of the bed. Lark watches, frozen, wide-eyed at Thea’s sudden tirade. “Thea,” Lark says, and her voice is small, resigned. “Thea, I don’t want them to be interested. If they knew the real me...if you knew the real me, you wouldn’t…”

“So what are you _hiding_ , then?!” Thea half-shouts at her. “What is so important and secret that you can’t tell me about it? Aren’t we supposed to be friends?”

Lark bows her head, puts a hand to her forehead, covers her eyes. “We are, Thea,” she says, “we _are_ friends, you’re my dearest friend. But even this, for your own good, I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

Thea growls out her frustration, her hands closing into fists. “What in Andraste’s _fucking_ name is so dangerous that you can’t tell me? Are you a blood mage or something? Maleficar, abomination?” She laughs then, harsh and barking. “Forget it. I can’t - I need to walk away from this right now. Maker send help, I don’t know what world Gavin lives in sometimes. You don’t deserve him in the least.”

Thea’s words hang in the air, bitter, sour. Lark feels a pang in her chest, like her heart is twisting, and suddenly it’s so clear, clear even to her what’s going on. “Thea, I tried to send him to you,” Lark says brokenly, her eyes beginning to sting. This, she never wanted this, never wanted to be the cause of a rift between them, not over a man. “I told him... I told him you were a good match, that you…”

Thea takes three swift steps to the door, grabs the handle, turns away from Lark. Lark can see her friend’s hand shaking. “Lark,” Thea says eventually, her voice low, trembling. “There is no sending a man somewhere he doesn’t want to go.”

The latch clicks; the door opens. Thea walks out, and the sound of the door closing is one of finality.

Lark sits on the bed, stunned, unsure of what’s just happened. Her mind is empty, finally empty, free of the thoughts that turn themselves over and over, free of Syncope’s whispering fury. Thea’s anger is what she has to deal with now, and Lark hasn’t a single idea how to weather her friend’s temper. Thea always means well, she knows, but there is in Lark something fundamentally wrong, something irreparable that makes her certain that a life of solitude is what’s best suited for her.

She doesn’t know how long she remains on the bed, but as time passes it becomes evident to her that she cannot be in the room when Thea returns. Lark gathers herself and stands, shaking her robes out, wincing at sore and aching joints. A walk around the tower might clear her head, or a trip to the library, provided Gavin is not there. 

Lark exits their room, shutting the door gently behind her, and turns right, wandering aimlessly. The tower is built with living quarters along the outside wall and classrooms in the center, and its to those halls she goes so that she might meander without meeting any others.

She is deep in one of the lecture sections when the cramps hit her unexpectedly. Lark gasps, taken completely off guard, stumbles, clutches at her abdomen, gulps down the sudden nausea. Unprepared, she is unprepared at how early they’ve come, and she needs to get back to her room before she makes a mess. But the pain is searing, a squeezing ache that radiates out from her back and hips and stomach, causing her knees to go weak. Lark falls against the wall, breathing heavily. Slowly, she slides down it, her knees hitting the floor, and curls into herself.

Muffled footsteps approach. Lark huddles on the floor, hoping the person will go away, but they stop by her and don’t go on. “What’s this?” a voice says, male, a light tenor. “Out after curfew?”

“She looks in distress.” A second voice joins the first. Surprised, Lark looks up, sees two Templars standing over her. Alarm ripples through her; her skin pebbles into goosebumps, and she tightens her hold on herself, as if she can escape their regard by making herself smaller. “Perhaps we should just escort her back?” says the second.

The first Templar speaks again. He’s familiar in a way that Lark can’t place, as if he’s been described but not seen. He is tall and slender, with sandy blonde hair and a not-unpleasant countenance; his eyes are darkened by the shadows in the hall. He has a charming way about him, and that alone makes her distrust him. “I can take her. You go on and finish the route.”

“Are you sure?” The other Templar’s face is openly skeptical.

“I think I can handle myself,” the blond one replies, smiling. 

The other Templar, uncertain, stands there for a moment. His eyes go back and forth between his partner and Lark, and she wonders why he is hesitating. One Templar is better than two in her estimation, and having both of them scrutinizing her is unlocking something akin to panic in her chest. Go away, go away, Lark thinks. Go away. Go away.

The Templar salutes. “Ser. I shall see you shortly.” He turns, and with a backwards glance down at Lark, he strides off down the hallway, disappearing around a corner.

Lark breathes out, her relief tempered by her pain. She can feel the beginnings of blood leaking from her, and like always it is an unclean feeling, only furthering her desperation to get back to her quarters. If she didn’t hurt so much, she’d be embarrassed; as it is, all she wants is to leave here and wait for Thea to come back, ask forgiveness, and beg for some tea. 

With effort, she pushes herself to her hands and knees.

“Lark, isn’t it?” The blond Templar kneels down next to her, extends an arm. “Might I help you back to your room?”

She shivers, uneasy. “How do you know…?”

“Oh, you’ve made a name for yourself now.” He smiles. Lark thinks he means it to be comforting, but it isn’t. “You’re a gifted healer, they say. Able to see into bodies the way other mages cannot, heal wounds almost miraculously, predict health issues before they fully arise. Truly, a savant, a rare talent.” When Lark doesn’t take his hand, the Templar lets it rest on her shoulder. She flinches away hard, hits the wall with a thump. 

He continues. “It’s interesting how you’ve tried to stay hidden instead of claiming your place among the healers, especially now that you’ve been Harrowed.” His eyes connect with hers, and his look is measured, weighing.

Lark finds that she is trembling, _afraid_. He knows too much, this Templar, this man who is sunlight made flesh, bright and handsome. He knows entirely too much, and it frightens her. “It’s quite curious, that. Most others would take their glory. But you...are intriguing. I am intrigued by you, Lark.”

Lark cannot think of anything she would like less at the moment than this Templar’s regard. “Please, ser,” Lark whispers weakly, “please, let me return to my rooms.” There is pain and darkness nibbling at the edges of her vision; there is the bulge of liquid between her legs. Syncope’s faint laughter echoes in her ears. “Please, ser…”

“Evert,” the Templar finishes for her, and at that the fear in Lark’s chest explodes, turns into full-fledged terror. Evert, not Ser Evert, not he of the punishing hands and ripped robes, not he who sends girl after girl to her room, bruised and in need of healing. 

“I am Ser Evert. I believe you know who I am.” His kindly smile turns cruel. “You are the healer, Thea’s friend, Gavin’s pet bird. Well, little Lark, you are more comely than I expected.” He appraises her, takes his bottom lip into his teeth, bites it. Somehow, the gesture makes Lark feel inexplicably filthy. 

“Has he even had you yet?” He laughs. “Probably not. Gavin has more principles than the Chant has verses. I’m willing to bet you are still...pure.

“I am going to enjoy this, I think.” 

Evert pulls his gloves off, folds them into his sash. “My dear, this may come as a surprise to you, but the Knight-Commander has been very curious about you ever since Ser Lowick passed away. He can’t figure it out, no matter what the reports say. But I think I can. We are so close to Kirkwall, after all.” Evert reaches under his hauberk, loosens something. Lark’s hands are clenched, and she is breathing fast, panting, willing herself to get past the pain, to get up and run. She won’t become another one of Evert’s victims, she _won’t._ “So we’ve been watching you. You, and Thea. She’s quite stunning, isn’t she? Such a body on that one, all curves and femininity.”

Lark hisses at that, and her fury uncoils in her like a whip, barbed and deadly. “You will not _touch her!”_ she spits. “You leave her alone, or I swear -”

“You’ll do what?” Evert smiles lazily, and it is indulgent, condescending. “What do you think you can do, mage? Against me? What did you think any of you could do to us?” Suddenly he moves, and the motion of his arm shooting out is like the striking of a snake, blurred, with a sharp bite, landing on her head, digging into her scalp. Lark cries out; her long black hair is tufted in his fist. Her hands go to her head involuntarily as he begins lifting her, hauling her up.

Enraged, she screams at him then, seizes her magic. Fire, _fire_ , lightning, force, _anything_ , she needs to defend herself, she needs to kill him. Lark reaches for his face, her fingers curled into claws, but Evert dodges her easily, laughs at her. He takes a breath.

Blue light flares and sparks in his eyes. Lark’s body is blown back by his holy shockwave, her robes plastering themselves to her skin. She feels a punch in her stomach from it, her breath leaving her, sees the world going gray, loses consciousness for half a second before she fights her way back, her hands now at her throat. Her magic is gone, there is nothing left to her, nothing except - except -

Now, _now_ , Lark finally has the knowledge, she finally knows what to do. She needs power; she _has_ power. Lark drags her breath in and screams again, and this time she just _does_ it, takes her pain, the tearing of her insides and the fresh blood that weeps from within, converts it to raw red power, raw red _magic_. Through a haze of crimson mist she can see Evert’s eyes widen, the sadistic look leaving them, replaced by the stunned realization of what she is. “Blood mage!” he shouts, but it’s too late now, Lark knows the spell, and she casts it: _blood control_.

It grips Evert before he can react, before he can summon up any more of the lyrium in his blood to negate her. Lark snarls like a wild thing held by the scruff, feeling the magic run like witchfire through his body, through his blood. In the back of her mind Syncope is begging her to use its power, channel demonic energy, but she ignores its stupid babble. She only has a minute or two, not long at all given the amount of blood coming from her. She can perhaps extend it just a little longer, and Lark concentrates, her body jerking in agony as something else inside her tears away, drips down the inside of her thigh.

Evert is held still within her spell, wide-eyed and horrified at the miasma of red that clings to her body. Lark snarls at him again. “You _will not touch her,”_ she says, her voice a thing of black vitriol. _“You will not touch any of them, ever again.”_ Lark wields a tendril of blood, separates it from the flows in his head, siphons its energy without regard to Evert’s reaction. His eyes go blank as she massages that spot in his brain, bores down into it with her command. “You will not harm the mages,” she orders, and she battles him, battles his will as he fights. 

It’s futile. Lark’s willpower is so much greater, has been exercised so much in the months spent holding onto Syncope. A minute ticks by, maybe a little more, and just as her supply of bloody power is running out he breaks, defeated. His hand loosens, and Lark’s body hits the floor, landing in a heap. Ser Evert crumples to his knees.

Lark’s heart is racing, and her adrenaline sings to her, jittery. The pain roars back, causing her body to lock up, eliciting a low moan. But Lark has to go, she has to leave, she can’t be seen here with him, with Evert, still on his knees, vacant-eyed and unfocused. She has to get back to her room, pretend nothing is wrong.

Lark disciplines herself, brings her will to bear, and begins crawling, hand by hand, down the hall. Tears run down her cheeks as she goes, soaking into the rugs. Lark puts her head down and goes on, struggles to her feet, pulls herself up against the wall, goes on, goes on. Her room, her room, her room with Thea, her room with Thea and the tea and the pretension of normalcy, she needs that. She needs the comfort of routine and the illusion of privacy, needs to shut herself off from the outside, ignore the consequences of her actions. She needs to think she hasn’t just made a colossal mistake.

She takes footstep after shaky footstep down the hall. A second trickle of blood joins the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me your thoughts...


	7. 9:37 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Self-harm.

_Keeping a demon bound is difficult._

_Lark is in the library, head bent over a book, but she is not paying attention to it. She stares at the page, text blurred in front of her eyes, twists her fingers together under the table, twists them together in her robes. She picks at them, rubs her sweaty palm on her leg, tries to filter out the voice in her mind, fails to do so._

_It won't stop talking. It never stops talking, never stops telling her of its anger, its shame at being so easily tricked by a little mortal girl. It talks and for all of the precautions she's taken to keep it separate, Lark fears its nature is seeping into her, changing her gradually. She has ordered it to be silent - "Quiet, be quiet!" - but the command has not taken, and won't take because all of Lark's willpower is being expended in leashing the demon, keeping its energies, if not its emotional essence, from mingling with hers._

_Focus, she must focus, she must keep herself on the present and not fall into the mire of her inner thoughts. She is here in the library waiting for Gavin, waiting for his watch to begin so that she can pass him a note. She supposes she could just talk to him, but the year or so of habit is hard to break. She could just talk to him because she's a mage now and not an apprentice, but just in case, she has the note._

_She stares at the page. The text of the book, some treatise on demons, sharpens and clears, fuzzes and loses clarity. Lark knows on some level that this is bad for her eyes, but Syncope is talking to her again, something about efficient extraction of energy, and she is compelled to listen to it._

_"Lark?"_

_She blinks, comes back to herself, sees Gavin standing beside her, a gloved hand resting on the table. He is looking away deliberately._

_"Hi," she whispers, and his expression brightens._

_"I am glad to see you well," he says, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "The last I saw of you..."_

_...had been at her Harrowing. Lark only remembers the part afterwards when she threw up and passed out, then the waking. "Here," she murmurs, her fingers pulling a folded piece of paper out from under her book. She slides it across the table, thrusting it towards his hand._

_He picks up his hand, captures the note. It disappears swiftly into the sash tied around his hauberk. After a moment, he stirs himself, and resumes his patrol._

*** *** ***

Darkness, utter darkness. Lark only knows her eyes are open by blinking them hard, exaggerating the movement of opening and closing, exercising the top part of her face. She clears her throat just to hear the sound, sticks out her index finger, imagines the flame, lively and warm, hovering above the ragged crescent of her nail.

The room is small, barely fitting the definition. It is more like a cell, only a few paces long in each direction, large enough to fit a dirty cot and a chamberpot and little else besides. The walls are bare, unpainted, the door made of a solid, heavy wood reinforced with iron studs. There is a slit cut into it, a little too high for her to see out, but it doesn't matter as it is shut, and has not been opened in some time.

Days, weeks, she doesn't know how long she's been here by herself, with only Syncope's ramblings to distract her. There is no light other than what she can produce, and the meals come intermittently. Sometimes she thinks they give her two or three in a day because her stomach complains less; other times, Lark knows they've forgotten about her, and she curls around the empty, cavernous bite in her body, feels nauseous as she swallows her saliva down. _This is nothing,_ she tells herself. _It was worse in the alienage._

It wasn't, and Lark is aware of that, but she tells herself anyway.

She passes the time by pacing the length and breadth of her cell, discovering how many steps it takes to get from one side to another. Four if she walks normally, and she tries to play a game then, a game called _Can Lark Jump Across Her Cell._ It gets boring quickly, but she has nothing else to do but ask Syncope questions to which she already knows the answers. That was its mistake, she thinks, to give her so much at once, and leave nothing in reserve.

Eventually the game becomes _Can Lark Lie Down and Touch Opposite Walls_ , then _Can Lark Lie Down and Stay Awake._

She loses at that one.

*** *** ***

_Lark gathers enough courage to go to the library a few days after Gavin has received the note. She avoids his smile as she walks in and goes into the stacks, studiously keeps her eyes on her tower of books when she comes out. She goes to her spot, sets the books down, arranges them into a little fort, pulls one off the pile and opens it to read._

_She knows Gavin will approach her, but she is surprised when she hears the soft scrape of chair legs against the rug, the settling of metallic bulk into the chair. Gavin is sitting next to her - sitting next to her with a gentle smile, sitting next to her openly in the library with other people around. Aghast, she stares at him, her mouth open and jaw slack. "Have...have you lost your mind?" she squeaks out._

_Casual, he's so casual, like it's perfectly natural for a Templar to take a seat next to a mage, lean an elbow on the table, look at her with an easy, disarming smile. The rumors will fly, Lark knows, they will wing out on soundwaves, flit from mouth to ear, mouth to ear. She's still terrified of what might happen if anyone knew she and Gavin were talking. She'd still rather communicate through notes and courier, but Gavin has just blown their secret to pieces by being so cavalier as to take a seat next to her in the library._

_"You're welcome," he says, and Lark's jaw drops even further, if possible. He's still his usual self but there can be no mistaking the cockiness in his tone. It's new, and Lark isn't sure if she likes it._

_"What's got you in such a good mood?" she grumps at him._

_Gavin's eyebrows crawl halfway up his forehead at her tone. "Crabby, are we?"_

_"Only because your brains are addled," she says acidly. "Sitting next to a mage in full view of everyone?"_

_He chuckles softly, his voice deep, and Lark can't help but think through her annoyance and alarm that his laugh is a sound she could spend much time with. "You've passed your Harrowing, you passed with flying colors," he tells her. "What is there to fear now that we know you can resist demonic possession?"_

_And then Lark realizes that Gavin does not know or does not understand the nature of power between them, how being her jailer can never lead anywhere but aloofness at best and hatred at worst. Now that she is a full mage he probably thinks they are on equal footing, but that isn't true in the slightest. The Templars can still nullify her magic, chop her down with their blades, use their superior strength and physical ability to overpower her. The Templars - **Gavin** \- can do this, and as long as he is one, as long as she is trapped in the Circle, they will never be able to explore anything beyond acquaintanceship._

_With a start, Lark finds for the first time that she might want something beyond acquaintanceship with him, whatever that means._

_It frightens her._

_"All the same things you feared when I was still an apprentice," Lark responds, perhaps a bit stubbornly. Syncope cackles so loudly then that she winces and almost puts her hands over her ears. "You consider us dangerous tools unfit to live among regular people. You tell us we cannot be trusted to wield the powers at our command, that we are constantly in danger of demonic possession, and if one of us is even the slightest bit emotional then your kind starts talking about Tranquility. If not Tranquility, then solitary confinement or imprisonment. What is there to fear, Gavin? Why does anything change just because we pass your shitty excuse for an exam?" The words boil out of her sudden and fast, and even she is taken aback at the depth of her passion._

_Gavin scowls. "Now you sound like Thea."_

_"Good." As much as Lark would like to spend the rest of her life alone and unbothered, she thinks Thea and the Libertarians have a point. "Maybe I should sound like her more, if it means you will leave me be."_

_His eyes narrow, flash with some emotion. "Are we back on this again? Your letter made me think otherwise."_

__May lightning strike me down right now _, Lark thinks,_ may the Beyond open up and swallow me whole. I am having a quarrel with a Templar in full view of everyone at the library. _"My note was -" She lowers her voice. "My note was simply thanking you."_

_As soon as the words leave her mouth she knows they're a lie. Heartfelt was the best way to describe her letter, full of gratitude and wonder that he would break rules to see her safe. Was she really surprised, then, that he would react so, embrace the possibility of a relationship with her full of stolen moments in between shelves of books, in dark corners, spanning minutes at a time?_

What kind of relationship could that be? _she thinks bitterly._ What could it bring but disaster? __

_"You confound me, Lark," Gavin says then, frustrated, heated. "You say one thing, do another. I can make neither heads nor tails of you, and neither can Thea."_

_Lark shuts her eyes, turns her face away. "Go be with her, then, if I am so hard to understand."_

_Gavin leans close, seizes her hand tight. Her eyes fly open in surprise to see him, only inches away, green depths intense. "I don't want her, Lark, I want **you.** "_

_Something kindles between them, suspended, and it makes her lips part in a gasp. Lark then hears her breathing, harsh in the sudden silence. She glances around and realizes that they are the center of attention. She closes her mouth, draws herself up._

_Her next words are cold. "You forget yourself, ser."_

_Gavin drops her hand like it's burning, pulls away from her, his expression dark. "Your pardon," he grates out. He stands abruptly and walks off._

*** *** ***

When she wakes Lark finds herself lying on the cot. It's marginally better than lying in the floor, which she had been doing, but she cannot remember when she got up. She cannot remember many things now, her time in solitary confinement muddling her senses, turning reality to dream and back again so often that she sometimes cannot determine what is what. She is alert and yet not, her body physically rested from all the time she spends dozing, half-conscious, in and out of her own thoughts. But rested as she is, she is weak, her body atrophied from disuse.

There is one thing she cannot let atrophy, however, and that is her control over the demon. Lark clings to this one thing when all the others go, when she cannot tell her waking hours from sleeping, when a simple itch becomes a raw patch of skin scraped away in a half-lucid haze, when she questions whether the soft blur of voices she hears from outside her cell is real, imagined, or just the sound of her talking to herself. When she curls herself into a ball on the cot, drawing her knees up to her chest with her forehead upon them, she is not sure if she is the one rocking back and forth, or if it's the world spinning dizzily from her from hunger and thirst.

She lies on the cot, looks into black nothing. She clears her throat again. 

Again. 

Again. 

Again.

Again.

Lark sings.

She sings songs her mother taught her, songs she heard from the other children, songs she's only heard in passing from the shems. She doesn't recall all the words but sings anyway, sings until she runs out of songs and is left only with what she can improvise. She sings until her top range fades away, switches to humming, chesty and warm and full of vibrato. She sings pure vowels, drops her jaw and firms her breath and makes her voice resonate through her sinus cavities and expand in volume until the entire cell is filled with her song. She sings, and quits bothering to hit notes, sliding between tones that approximate singing.

Lark sings, and it sounds like crying, like lamenting, a dirge, her voice rising and falling slowly in the darkness.

*** *** ***

_Evert gets his revenge on her after Satinalia. Lark confines herself to her room during the festival, electing only to go to the infirmary or receive patients. Satinalia has everyone's spirits up, especially the Templars, and Lark finds herself laying on hands to heal bruised necks and faces, split lips and many other things besides, threading her magic into bodies to see if there is anything else wrong. Sometimes she doesn't find anything wrong, but she does find something interesting. When she does she finds she is no longer as bound by propriety and principle, and she pushes on it, making her patient cry out. "Lark," Thea will admonish, but Lark will just shrug non-apologetically and finish her job._

_Perhaps it is Syncope's influence that makes her care less about inflicting pain; perhaps it is her experience with Ser Evert that has hardened her. Nevertheless, Lark is becoming more callous._

_It doesn't bother her._

_She is in the middle of a healing when the Templars burst unexpectedly through their door. Thea shrieks, her patient shrieks, but Lark only stares in dismay at the smug, satisfied expression on Ser Evert's face. In her stunned horror she does not hear anything but a roaring in her ears. Time slows then, stretching._

_Evert says something; Lark can see his mouth moving. Two of the three Templars accompanying him seize her - **clever** Ser Evert, how clever to subvert her command - and then through the din, two words come clear: solitary confinement. _

_"No!" she screams then, trying to tear herself away from the Templars' iron grip. "No, please, no!" Lark wants to be alone but not like this, **not like this** , not thrown into a hole and left there to rot in her own miserable company, not taken against her will and caged. "No!" she screams again, thrashing, slippered feet pushing against the floor, but at a nod from Evert one of the Templars cuffs her across the face, snapping her head to the side. _

_She tastes blood in her mouth._

_Briefly, briefly, Lark considers unleashing her magic, thinks about using that sweet, coppery taste and the boiling rage locked in her mind to teach them the meaning of real pain._

_"Thea, help!" she sobs out instead, but Thea can't do anything, the third Templar is holding her, one hand around her arm, the other fisted in her hair._

_"At least a month," he says, and Lark **hates** him, hates his voice, hates his face, hates everything about him. She will kill him, she swears it, she will kill him one way or another, she will make it long and slow and torturous and she will exult in it, she will glorify in it._

_Syncope's cruel laughter echoes in her mind as the Templars drag her off._

*** *** ***

She knows that she's been in solitary for some time when her cycle arrives, knocking her down. She bleeds, bleeds everywhere, cries and moans in the darkness, unable even to conjure a tongue of fire to push the oppressive blackness away. Lark has nothing so she bleeds and vomits, bleeds until her robes are soaked and foul, bleeds from her cot to the floor and to the chamberpot, the smell of her menstruation cloying and pervasive, always in her nose.

She has never been a nail chewer, but without resources to combat the pain, she has to improvise. Lark bites her nails, scrapes out the flesh from underneath the overhang with the corners of her loosening teeth, pretends not to notice the salty taste of grime and skin and whatever else might be there. Sometimes she's hungry enough to swallow the bits instead of spitting them out, and when she does she cries at how degraded she's become, at how wretched the Templars have made her.

Lark lies on the floor and worries at her nails, the click-click-click sound snapping sharply in the silence. She bites her nails to the quick, tastes fresh blood, changes to another finger and does the same. When she runs out of fingers she nibbles at her cuticles, at the tiny strips of skin that are sticking up thanks to deficiency and poor condition, pulls at them with her front teeth until her fingers are striped and raw almost up to the first knuckle.

When she runs out of those, she begins peeling away the skin of her fingertips. She keeps going even when her cycle finishes, picking at each digit, flaying herself little by little with her teeth.

Blood, she thinks. That's all she is, a mess of blood, old and new, dry and wet, blood inside her, outside her, surrounding her. Syncope laughs and gibbers at her, begs her to use it to escape, tempts her with how easily she could take hold of whatever guard is standing outside her door and use him to set her free.

Through all of it, Lark says no. Demonic knowledge is what she wanted, not demonic power, and so she holds on, keeps Syncope so firmly under her thumb that doing so becomes her only means of staying sane. She is Lark, and it is Syncope, and she must, must keep them separate. She will keep herself separate from it, bend herself to that task and ignore the heavy, pressing darkness and the unexplainable fear that wants to rise in her, twisting through her stomach and chest, choking her.

Lark has never been afraid of the dark and it would be foolish, she reasons, to begin now. Breathing, she needs deep breathing, big breaths to keep her body from shaking and spasming, big lungfuls of the smell of old blood and her own filth. Breathing, and a calm mind so that she can take control of her body, use the knowledge she has gained from experience to begin experimenting on herself. She knows as a healer that her body is ravaged beyond help, that if she is not released soon she will die, her body shutting down one system of a time until it all collapses into shock and then death. She eats what little they give her, drinks whatever is in her cup, but it is not enough. She delves herself, examines herself with the tiny amount of magic she can siphon from the Fade. Can she alter her heart rate and slow the functions of her kidneys? Can she change herself so that she can survive?

"Can I," she whispers, "can I? Can I?"

 _Can you?_ Syncope mocks her. _Can you, can you?_

One when - Lark has stopped trying to count days, and only thinks in terms of _this time, that time, when time_ \- she hears a muted commotion. She shakes her head, trying to get the sound out, but it only grows louder, becomes more distinct. Thea, it's Thea, and if she could move, Lark would have leapt in joy.

"...has been in there long enough, longer than is humane," Thea is saying, and there is the edge of desperation in her voice. "Let her go, ser, _please._ She has been in there almost two months for no reason, it's monstrous!"

"Orders from Ser Evert," says her captor.

"I have orders from Knight-Commander Tiernan to release her," and that's Gavin, it's Gavin, it’s Gavin, Lark is overwhelmed with emotion.

"Do you have that in writing?"

A cry of anger from Thea, a scuffle of feet, a thumping at her door. "Lark!" Thea shouts, pounding on the door. "Lark, can you hear me? Lark!"

"Remove your hand from your weapon, ser," and it's Gavin again, and Lark has never heard him sound so incensed. "Or if you wish to duel, _draw your sword.”_

Tense, fraught silence.

There's the jingle of keys, and the turning of bolts in the door.

Light, golden light pouring into her cell, piercing painful awful light. Lark flinches and turns her head away, misses the reactions of her friends when they behold her. Thea's cry is wordless as she kneels next to Lark's cot. "You bastards," she weeps, " _you fucking bastards,_ what have you done to her? What have you done?"

In contrast Gavin is ice, jagged ice, his voice like the sound of grinding stone. _"Maker take you,_ ser. There _will_ be a report made to the Knight-Commander about this, I swear it. Andraste have mercy on you then."

Lark feels herself being lifted, cradled, floated up off the cot, her head and hair and arms and legs dangling. She has no strength to fight, only strength enough to close her eyes and sigh. The movement even then is too much for her to bear, and she feels the blood leaving her head, her heart unable to pump it fast enough to compensate for the change in position.

"Lighter than a wisp, you are," Gavin mutters to her, and at this Lark gasps, begins breathing fast, faster, faster and faster until she is hyperventilating, unable to control herself.

"Lark, no!" Thea cries. "Oh Maker, no! I'm sorry I have to do this, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -"

Fingers touch her head, and magic flares.

Blessed, cool nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to tell me what you think! You probably have some thoughts.


	8. Spring, 9:37 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Blood.

Lark drifts in and out of consciousness, laid out in the infirmary.

The soft glow of lights; milk, warm on her lips; a hand holding hers; the susurrus of voices, unintelligible. Thick blankets, a welcome heavy weight; the occasional suffusion of healing magic; the honeyed taste of a potion, Thea’s touch. Lark keeps forgetting to tell her she doesn’t want it sweetened.

Syncope’s presence in her mind; cramps, sharp and wicked, whenever she drinks; hallucinations and delusions; convulsions for no reason; fear that everything was a dream and she was in the Fade.

Time, waking and not, slips by her, around her. Lark is a rock in a river and everything flows by, blending together as she convalesces. The sound of Thea’s voice; Enchanter Artos’ constant presence, monitoring her; the dispassionate words of the Tranquil who feeds her thin broth with frightening regularity - “You must eat to regain your strength,” she says - these things make up Lark’s days, comfort her with the knowledge that she is moving forward, that she is not back there where time was an abstraction, a mere concept in the dark.

Gradually, Lark makes gains. She’s tired, so tired, but she’s able to keep her eyes open for longer stretches at a time, push herself up from the bed, even walk with assistance. Thea is ever-present, and during this time she is the most like her old self, motherly and funny, irreverent and a bit crass. She sits with Lark and writes in her notebook, and Lark can see formulas appearing across the pages, orderly and precise in Thea’s neat handwriting. She talks to Lark about the Libertarian meetings, keeps Lark up to date on what’s happening in the Circle. It’s through Thea that Lark learns of Ser Evert’s imprisonment.

Fury, black and venomous, rises in her. “How could they,” she growls. She can think of a hundred ways to punish Evert, and imprisonment isn’t one of them.

“I agree, death would be better, after what he’s done.” Thea puts her quill down and blows on the pages of her notebook. Lark can see that her friend’s emotions are being carefully contained. “You have galvanized the tower, Lark. The templars are divided. The first enchanter is impotent against the knight-commander, who seeks only to protect his own.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “He believes there is some kind of influence from Kirkwall.”

“Kirkwall?” Lark is puzzled.

“Blood magic,” Thea murmurs to her. “The Circle there is ready to fall apart. The situation is bad, only made worse by their knight-commander. She thinks blood mages and abominations surround her. She’s been…” Thea pauses. “She’s been making mages Tranquil without cause, and confining them, like what was done to you.”

Lark shivers, turns her face away. “What do you need me to do, Thea?”

 _“Recover.”_ Thea says the word between gritted teeth. “Recover, Lark, and join us.”

Lark’s hand clenches into a fist. “Consider it done.” She has every intention of making a full recovery. Lark has a goal, after all; she made a promise months ago, and she means to see it through.

Days pass, a week, maybe two; in a surprise move, Gavin comes to see her, unarmored, breaking with all convention as he pulls a chair up next to her bed and sits down. Lark opens her mouth to speak, but Gavin shakes his head, holds a hand up. “I trust Thea has informed you of what’s been happening,” he says. “I’ve made my position clear to the knight-commander. There are others who feel as I do.”

Lark swallows, nervous. “What happens now, then?”

Gavin leans back in his chair, heaves a sigh. “Maker only knows. Something big, most likely.” His gaze meets hers, and he smiles. “I didn’t mean to be a raincloud upon your sickroom. Forgive me. Can we start again? Hello, Lark.”

Despite herself, she smiles back, and Gavin’s eyes brighten. “Hello, Ser Gavin.”

“Just Gavin, if it please you. We’ve known each other too long for formalities, don’t you think?”

At that, Lark nods. “What’s that there?”

It’s a book, plain, obviously old. _“Tales from Orzammar._ I’ve brought it other times, but this is the first time you’ve been awake and aware enough to know I’m here.”

She stares at him. “You...you’ve come before…?” She swallows again, swallows against the sudden tightness in her chest.

Gavin huffs out a small laugh. “Of course I have. Andraste preserve me, I’ve visited you almost as much as Thea.”

“That’s impossible,” Lark replies immediately, and Gavin laughs earnestly this time, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re right.” He holds up the book. “Shall I read to you?”

Lark finds that both her hands are pressed to her mouth, her breath gusting out from between her fingers. “I’ve never...no one’s ever…”

He looks at her then, pitying, and Lark feels shame winding hot through her as she is reminded of her upbringing. She pulls her hands away from her face, and looks down.

She feels his fingers brush hers. Her eyes widen.

Gavin’s voice is soft when next he speaks. “Let me be the first, then.”

*** *** ***

Three months. It takes three months of hard work, of daily monitoring of herself, balancing the amount of food she takes in against the amount of energy spent healing herself. Three months of confronting every day just how much damage her time in solitary has done to her, three months of effecting what Artos calls a miraculous recovery. Three months of her silently honing the edge of her hate, three months spent planning revenge from every angle possible.

She gathers information little by little, gleaning details of where Evert is being held, his condition, how many guards are watching him, who they are, what their routine is. Lark files the tidbits away, fits the pieces together, builds as complete a picture as she can. Patience, Lark has patience, and no matter how long it takes, she will have her reckoning.

Thea and Gavin visit regularly. Thea fills out the pages of her notebook, taking care to explain to Lark exactly how her special elfroot tea is brewed. Gavin finishes _Tales from Orzammar_ , and after some conferring, they chart out a series of books to read together. Lark finds herself cherishing these times with Gavin, the two of them bent over books, reading biographies, novels, fairy tales. It’s the latter that Gavin loves most. Lark can tell, because Gavin is like one of those impossibly perfect fairy tale princes, always courteous and kind and compassionate.

Three months and Lark finally is able to leave her bed in the infirmary, returning to her own rooms. She spends a week sneezing from all the dust that’s accumulated while she’s been gone. “You didn’t even dust once?” she asks Thea.

Thea grins at her and shrugs. 

Kirkwall’s chantry explodes.

Tensions run high for two days as the mages and templars gather at the windows, watching smoke rise from the city across the strait. Birds wing swiftly in and out of the tower, bringing news: an apostate named Anders was the culprit; Grand Cleric Elthina and countless others were killed; Knight-Commander Meredith invoked the Right of Annulment; First Enchanter Orsino was gone, having succumbed to blood magic; Knight-Commander Meredith had been relieved of her duties, and was succeeded by Knight-Commander Cullen.

“We can’t stay here,” Thea whispers to Lark on the third night. They are huddled together on Thea’s bed, speaking in low voices that carry only inches away. “Escape plans have been moved up. We can’t allow Tiernan or the other templars to harm us. They’re just waiting for some excuse, any excuse.”

Lark shudders, thinking of the Right of Annulment. “What’s the timetable then?”

“Tomorrow night, eighth bell. We’ll meet by the small side entrance in the far end of apprentice classrooms. Gather all the things you need, food, clothing, valuables. This isn’t going to be pretty. I don’t know how many of us there will be, but if there are enough numbers...”

Lark says nothing, thinking of Gavin.

“Lark. You can’t say a word to him.” Thea’s hand tightens on Lark’s shoulder. “He can’t know.”

“I know that,” Lark replies, frowning. Sad, is she sad? It’s a new sensation after spending five months alternately afraid, angry, or unconscious. Even though she is still apprehensive at the idea of having any kind of relationship with a templar, Lark has to admit that it is nice to have another good friend. She isn’t looking forward to abandoning him. Lark sighs.

“Thea, do you mind…if I stay right here...with you?” Tonight, at least, Lark doesn’t want to be alone.

“Of course not.” Lark feels an arm slip over her waist, feels the warm familiarity of Thea’s hug. “Get some rest, Lark. We’re going to need all our strength tomorrow.”

Lark sleeps fitfully, rises early before Thea, her mind uneasy. For a while she putters about the room, trying to pack, but aside from a few changes of smallclothes, a cloak, her dagger and staff, and an extra set of robes, she doesn’t have many personal effects. She folds her clothes, bundles them into her cloak, belts on her dagger, and thinks about things she needs to retrieve next, like lyrium potions.

She looks at Thea, watches the rise and fall of her friend’s chest under the blanket, hears her soft, even breaths. Thea is deeply asleep, her eyes closed and still, lips parted slightly. She is so deeply asleep she looks a sculpture, a marble carving in color, with morning sunlight gilding nut-brown skin and caressing the waves of her hair. For a moment Lark stands there and tries to set aside the foreboding feeling in her, tries to appreciate the quiet scene for what it is: something simple and joyful, secret and hers.

Lark picks up a quill, scribbles a note for Thea letting her know where she’ll be, then exits the room. She plans to spend the entire day at the infirmary until it’s time to make their escape. Lark chews on her tongue and thinks as she walks, wondering exactly what the details of Thea’s plan are, or if it’s just a desperate bid for escape before it’s too late. How many mages would make the attempt? Where would they go if they were successful? What would happen if they were discovered?

Lark knows that whatever happens, she’ll go down fighting.

She arrives at the infirmary, greets the Tranquil. Today Lark will make an effort; she tries to remember her name, and after an hour of wracking her brain Lark finally recalls it. “Maiwenn,” Lark says, and the Tranquil woman turns to face her. “I’d like a packet of lyrium potions, please, and a heavy mixture of elfroot draught.”

Maiwenn looks at her for a long moment, dull eyes appraising her. “Will you need me to run an errand for you?”

Lark chews on the nail of her forefinger before she answers. “I believe I will, Maiwenn. How long have you known?”

“Known about you or known about your plans?”

“Both, I suppose.” And then Lark feels pity, pity for the elven woman, pity and sadness and anger that someone this perceptive and intelligent would be made Tranquil, would have half of her soul cut away to protect against possible possession.

“I am not blinded by emotion like the others. I have known what you are from the very beginning. What you do is not like anyone else. As for your plans, I am willing to assist in whatever capacity you deem fit.”

Lark peels off a strip of nail, worries it with her teeth. “And yet you have not said anything about my abilities. Why?”

It’s Maiwenn’s turn to be silent. Finally, she says, “Because you do good with it. Because you heal those in need, and do not practice those arts like the others in the tower. Because you have dispensed justice in the past, and will keep doing it in the future. I support your cause.”

Inexplicably, Lark’s eyes begin to sting. “Maiwenn, I… Thank you. I will…” Lark folds her lips together, goes on. “I will need you to bring a pot of tea down to the black cells at the sixth bell. The guards have their evening meal at that time and I’ll expect they will share the tea with their prisoner. Return immediately to me afterwards.”

Maiwenn nods. “A heavy mixture.”

“Yes. And then, afterwards, stay safe. Take care of yourself.”

“I will do my best.”

Lark hopes it’s enough.

The cells are silent when Lark enters them, silent as a tomb. Apt, she thinks, because that’s what she hopes they will be. She is going to make them a place of dying tonight, a sepulcher, a place of righteous, cold revenge and slow, bloody death.

The glowlamps are dim, but Lark’s eyes adjust quickly as she walks. A left here, straight down there, then a right, down the steps - and there in front of her is an open area in the hallway, a small wooden table set up in the corner, with two chairs beside, toppled over.

Lark’s slippered feet make no noise on the stone as she nears, but her dagger hisses quietly as she removes it from its sheath. The first templar is asleep, and killing him is easy, just a quick deep slice to his neck, her hand held out to control the fountaining of blood from his carotid artery. There is a lot of it, but Lark doesn’t mind in the least as she draws deeply of it, a red glow springing up around her.

She flings out her other hand, still holding the dagger, gestures at the second templar, casts blood wound. Lark can hear the sizzle of blood boiling in her mind, and the templar jerks, a strangled shout escaping him as he becomes paralyzed. Swift, she’ll make his death swift as the first one, Lark has no real quarrel with these two. She places a foot on his cheekbone to hold him down, leans over, puts her weight behind the killing blow.

Blood spurts out but Lark catches it, adds it to the globe of viscous crimson liquid that she’s got hovering over her left hand. Power, so much power in these two, and it’s such a pity that Lark won’t really be able to use it, because she is going to kill Evert the old-fashioned way, the ultimately satisfactory way. No magic here, just vengeance, sweet vengeance.

Lark picks up the ring of keys from the table, tries a few until the correct one turns in the lock. The hinges shriek as she pushes the door open. As expected, Ser Evert is lying on his cot, eyes half-lidded from the soporific.

“Wake up,” Lark says coldly, and flings the blood at him. Evert flinches at the splash when it hits him; it covers him, splatters up the wall, runs off his cot, soaks into his tunic and breeches, makes his face a mask of red. 

“So you’ve finally come,” he says, words slurred from the elfroot. Blood runs into his mouth; he spits once, twice.

“Yes, I have. It’s past time you were served some justice.” Lark rolls up her sleeves and holds the pommel of her dagger in her mouth briefly as she ties up her robes, shortening the hem. She goes over to the cot, her mouth pursed, and studies Evert for a moment before she sets the dagger down and pulls off his boots. She’s surprised at how clinical and detached she feels. She thinks she should be...happier.

Evert laughs weakly at her. “I should have killed you when I had the chance. No, I should have had my pleasure with you first, _then_ killed you. Silly me for talking instead of taking action.”

“Silly you!” she murmurs lightly back at him, taking hold of her dagger.

Lark is a healer, not a chirurgeon; surgery is not something she has ever needed to do. But she tries her best, her hands rock steady. She wields her dagger with icy precision over the anatomy she knows so well. Elbows, ankles, hamstring, jawbone - Lark slices in, severs tendons, unstrings Evert ligament by ligament until he cannot move or speak. Through it all Evert watches her unblinking, his pain dulled by the potion, unable to take action because of her compulsion.

“I’ll give you this, Evert,” Lark says finally, straightening up, her hand going to the laces of his breeches. She unfastens them, then draws the edge of her dagger hard down one leg, parting the fabric, revealing his thigh. “You faced me until the very end.”

Her knife bites deep. Lark pushes until she feels the tip grind against bone, makes sure she hits the femoral artery, then withdraws, taking a few steps back. She meets his eyes one last time, then turns and leaves.

Lark hums as she strolls back up to the main floor. She sings to the blood, evaporates it off her hands, her arms, her skin, her clothes. She holds up her dagger and sings to that too, watches as the metal turns clean, breathes in the coppery scent of blood, takes it deep into her lungs. She sheaths it then, turns towards the stairs, thinking about what time it is.

Lark climbs. Her earlier feeling of foreboding is back despite her contentment at having dealt with Ser Evert. It is eerily empty in the tower, too empty even though it’s more than half-past the sixth bell. There should be at least a few mages wandering the halls, or an apprentice or two scurrying around, but there is no one.

Dread coils in her gut as she reaches the second landing. It’s the templars, Lark realizes; the templars are to a man gone, every single one. Something leaps into Lark’s throat, a feeling of terrible portent causing her breath to come faster. Lark breaks into a trot, and then a run, one hand held over her mouth as if to catch the bile that is threatening to come out of her. She hears voices ahead. One of them is Thea’s, but she can’t tell what she’s saying.

Lark rounds the bend, sees two figures in the hallway, facing off against each other. Suddenly everything becomes crystal clear, and Lark experiences everything in a hyper-aware reality. She notices all the details; they burn themselves into her brain, etch themselves into the backs of her eyelids. Thea is in a defensive casting stance, but her hair is braided - _she never braids her hair_ , Lark thinks - and it swings behind her, the ends of her hair forming a little curling pig’s tail. Knight-Commander Tiernan, sword drawn, is lunging forward, and Lark can see the shockwave of his holy smite rippling the air in front of him, can see the shine of the glowlamps flashing along the length of his blade as he stop-thrusts it directly into Thea’s stomach.

Lark screams. Thea’s body freezes around Tiernan’s blade as it exits her back. Tiernan yanks his sword out, and drops of blood spray in an arc over the rug, past Thea’s hip, onto the floor. He raises it again, and the steel length gleams red as it swings down, cleaving between Thea’s shoulder and neck in a blow that Lark knows is absolutely fatal.

Lark screams again, her magic springing to life around her, takes a breath, keeps screaming. Thea, _Thea_ , Lark hopes that her death is quick but knows it won’t be quick enough, not with a wound like that. Her scream changes to a keen as she draws another breath; she trips, stumbles, falls heavily to her knees at Thea’s side, at Thea’s bloody, ruined side. Thea’s eyes are wide open and scared, so scared, scared and shocked; it’s wrong, completely wrong, Thea has never been scared in her life. _She’s_ the fearless one, _she’s_ the one who takes risks, who laughs through danger, who bluffs without a single blink of an eye. This girl with Thea’s face and the wide, panic-stricken eyes isn’t Thea at all.

She embraces her magic even as Thea’s blood peppers her face, calls up the spell even though she knows there is nothing to be done, dumps her magic into Thea’s body even as a cleanse pushes through the air and hits her, knocking her over, the blue mist over Thea’s body disappearing instantly.

In the silence that follows Lark can hear her own wracking sobs, the almost imperceptible _splish splish_ of Thea’s lifeblood draining from her in spurts. Lark grabs Thea’s shoulder, tries futilely to put the pieces of her dying friend back together, hunts for the largest artery so that she can pinch it shut long enough to work her magic.

“I invoked the Right of Annulment,” Tiernan says, saluting her with his sword.

“It was _me!”_ Lark howls at him. _”It was me, it was me, I’m the blood mage, it was me!”_ She falls over Thea’s body then, feels like she is one giant sob, one huge ache of loss. “It was me...Thea, it was me the whole time.”

Thea’s eyes clear in the seconds before her death. Lark meets her friend’s gaze, her heart bursting with its sorrow. Thea’s lips move, and with her last, rattling breath, she says, “Use me, Lark.”

Lark knows from Syncope that living blood is the strongest blood, but any blood mage can use fresh blood, and blood that is given freely is the best of all. She feels in her now a turning, a changing of emotions, her grief in all its magnitude converting to fury, to rage, to the blackest anger.

She knows exactly what she is going to do.

Tiernan’s blade comes for her but Lark flings up a hand, takes the point of it straight into her palm. The metal grates against her bones and Lark knows that if she doesn’t heal them in time there will be permanent damage but right now she doesn’t care, _she does not fucking care_ , she is rage incarnate, she is violence, she is ruin. Lark’s next scream is primal, rending the air with its sound. Lark seizes the power in Thea’s blood, yanks the power out of her own, closes her hand around the blade, trapping it. Raw, red light kindles in Lark’s eyes, and the strength of her magic flares out in bright red flashes of lightning.

Tiernan tries to kick her but Lark throws herself aside. All that time she wondered what she’d do with Syncope, tried to figure out how to let it go without destroying her - the solution is here, the solution is clear. Lark rips off Syncope’s restraints at the same time a double helix of rust-colored light spirals up Tiernan’s blade, wrapping itself around his hand. Lark’s mouth is open and she is screaming and she is wrenching her hand off the point of his sword, she is slapping her open, bloody palm upon the bare skin of Tiernan’s fist, she is summoning now, _summoning_ , channeling magic the way Syncope taught her.

But this is demonic power, and it is not of her. Lark rejects it, refuses to let searing hot energy mingle with hers, forces it instead into the blood on Tiernan’s skin. Acrid smoke fumes from her mouth as Syncope begins to manifest, issues from her throat in metallic-tasting clouds. “Go,” she commands, and her voice is not hers, it is an amalgam of hers and Syncope’s, terrifying in its inhumanity. “Go!” she directs it, and Lark brings her will to bear, knows with complete certainty that she is not the one who will become the abomination.

Tiernan is frozen with magic; he opens his mouth, but at that second the skin of his hand blisters, bubbles with pus and lymph, begins to transform. “NO!” Tiernan shouts, and the amalgam is now in his voice. Lark thrusts her will against the demon’s again, against both the demon and the knight-commander. Tiernan is fighting and he is not at all like Evert, no. He is older and the lyrium is infused with his body, and together they all fight her like she has never been fought before. Lark drains Thea’s blood of power, drains herself recklessly, and her willpower roars up, straining against Tiernan’s in a hanging, long second of equilibrium before she crushes him utterly.

Lark falls to the floor next to Thea’s body, shaking uncontrollably with how much magical power she has just poured into the knight-commander. Tiernan steps back a pace, two, three, he stumbles and twitches, body jerking as Syncope’s true form breaks to the surface of Tiernan’s skin. There is laughter now, cruel laughter, and in the center of Tiernan’s head Lark can see the glowing white light of Syncope’s face begin to emerge.

Footsteps pound behind her and a templar hurtles past, sword drawn. It’s Gavin, oh it’s Gavin, he’s saving her again like it’s a habit. Lark can only watch as a pillar of light smashes down onto the knight-commander, staggering him. Gavin rears back, sword gripped in both hands, and in a single, clean stroke, he separates Tiernan’s head from his shoulders.

The body collapses into itself, crumpling onto the floor, and smokes.

“Maker help us,” Gavin whispers.

Lark rolls onto her side, her hand a fiery pain. The anger is gone, and it leaves behind a cavernous emptiness, a hole in her chest that she thinks might never be filled. Crying, Lark finds the last bit of magic she has left, casts a healing spell on her hand, sobs through the pain of bones re-calcifying, blood vessels firming and reconnecting, tendons knitting back together. When it’s done Lark turns her face into Thea’s intact shoulder, pushes her forehead against the joint, and weeps.

“Maker, no, Andraste, no,” Gavin says brokenly, kneeling. “Thea…” Lark hears a shuddering breath, and Gavin’s voice, speaking softly and haltingly the words of the Chant of Light. “Oh, Thea… Draw your last breath, my friend...cross the Veil, and the Fade, and all the stars of the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand. And be forgiven.”

Lark clings to Thea’s arm until Gavin pries her off. “Lark, I need to get you out of here now,” he tells her calmly. Lark just stares at him, uncomprehending, her grief too much to bear. “Lark, do you understand me? I can get you out of the tower, but you need to help me.”

Somehow, Lark gets her belongings out of her room. Somehow, she has enough foresight to pick up Thea’s notebook, gather up the lyrium potions scattered throughout their quarters. Somehow, Gavin navigates them both down through hidden corridors and secret, dusty steps, down to a stable of horses Lark did not know existed. And somehow, he gets them both up, Lark riding awkwardly in front, Gavin holding her securely.

She bursts into tears again when her face hits the cool air of night. It’s Lark’s first time outside in six years, and the sky is cloudless and clear. There are more stars above than Lark remembers ever seeing. There is a blood moon rising, a huge disk looming over the horizon, and it is a lurid red eye in the heavens, staring balefully at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts *eyebrow eyebrow* *tuneless humming*


	9. Late Spring, 9:37 Dragon

If she turns her head fast enough, Lark can see Thea.

She catches glimpses of her around corners, feels her presence in her room. She sees her face in the village, can hear her voice echoing out of the well when she goes to draw water, blinking and struck by how real her vision is. 

They come suddenly, the tears. Lark will look up from what she’s doing and for a split second Thea will be standing there. Lark will bite down on her tongue and close her eyes, and a little half-sob will escape her, and the tears will begin, a stinging, rising tide heralding her grief.

Thea is a ghost, haunting her. Every thought leads to her, everything is a reminder of her. Lark dreams constantly of Tiernan’s blade bursting from Thea’s back, relives the slow-motion spray of her blood and the savage downward swing that destroyed any chance of leaving together. Lark wakes from the nightmares weeping, calling out for Thea. There is never an answer, only the light of a single lit taper, flickering in the darkness.

The night of her escape is hazy, and Lark remembers only weight and weightlessness, the heaviness of Thea’s death and the lightness of Syncope’s absence, the two feelings warring within her. She remembers the jostling discomfort of riding, the steadiness of Gavin’s armor against her back, the enormous moon, crimson, then orange, finally silver, rising, shrinking. 

She and Gavin had ridden steadily, not looking back, hoping they weren’t being pursued. West, Gavin had determined, following a course along small roads, keeping the Waking Sea to their right. The few times Lark came out of her fugue she had asked Gavin how he knew where to go; he’d given her non-specific answers. _I used to know this area well,_ he’d say, or _I wasn’t always a templar_ , or _rest Lark, don’t worry about it._

The village where they settle is small, wooden houses and thatched shacks crowded crookedly along a short cliff overlooking the sea. A small track leads down to the ocean, and Lark spends much time, days and nights and days blending together, sitting on the grayish sand dunes, staring out over the waves, mourning, blaming her tears on the nonexistent salt spray. She takes to wandering, walking along the beach for hours, wading into the surf, focusing only on the immediate sensations of sand beneath her feet, the rush and bubble of waves on the shore, the cries of sea birds wheeling overhead.

One day Gavin finds her at sunset and hauls her roughly out of the ocean, where she is standing, neck-deep, eyes looking straight ahead, her body bobbing up and down to the strength of the water. It’s the first time Lark sees him panic. “What were you thinking?!” he shouts at her. “Thea is not there, Lark, she is _not there_ , you can’t be where she is now!”

Lark turns her face into his shoulder, shivering and chilled, and wails. “I never told her,” she cries, her mouth open and slack, the fabric of his shirt rough against her lips. “I never told her, Gavin, I didn’t want it sweet, I didn’t like the honey, I never told her!”

Gavin holds her then, his arms a protective circle, and bows his head against hers. She can feel the tightness in his chest as if it’s her own, and his shoulders shake as he clings to her.

Somehow, it’s Lark who ends up cradling him close, letting him mourn for the first time since their escape from the tower. They return to the village well after moonrise that night, and Lark leaves the door open when she goes to her room. Gavin follows behind, shutting it firmly. She lies down on the bed, makes room for him. Wordlessly, he joins her.

The next morning, Lark wakes to sunlight and warmth, Gavin’s arm over her waist, his nose pressed into her hair. She feels the fine hairs on the back of her neck stir to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

She admits to herself that she likes it.

Lark learns that outside the tower she has next to no useful skills, but she tries her best. When she is in the village she heals, proves to the inhabitants that she is not dangerous, dispels myths regarding mages, answers all the questions she can about magic. She observes the cooking, helps with the laundry, tags along with the foragers when they go out. Gavin, unsurprisingly, quickly becomes a favorite among the villagers and their children, helping out with tasks, shucking off his shirt to haul in the harvest from the ocean, telling his favorite stories at night around the large fireplace in the town hall.

Weeks pass; Lark establishes a routine, begins the process of reassembling her life for however long she’ll stay. Gavin helps her build a small house for herself, really just a wooden shack with a drafty roof, one window, and a door, but it’s hers, and that’s good enough. It instantly becomes a place of healing, and Lark often begins the day by opening her door to people or livestock with ailments.

Gavin frequents her house morning and night, and as the days wear on Lark notices his behavior changing subtly. He begins pacing; he rubs his forehead hard, repeatedly. He loses focus, forgets what he’s talking about mid-sentence. Concerned, Lark asks him if she can help.

“No, not really,” he replies, sighing. “It’s the lyrium.”

“I can still try.” She motions to the single chair in the room.

“All right.” He sits, and Lark puts her hands to his head, delving him with her magic. It takes her at least an hour to hunt down vaguely where the addiction would be most concentrated, where the hum of bright blue is hiding in his head. 

“Gavin,” she says, hesitant. “I don’t know what will happen if I do this. The best-case scenario is that nothing happens. The worst, I don’t know. I could kill you if I -”

“Do it,” he says to her, and he is surprising in his forcefulness.

Lark closes her eyes then, lets the barest whisper of her magic caress the depths of his brain, lets it clear out some of the blue and replace it with her own. Gavin moans suddenly, loudly; Lark stops, her hands flying away from his head as if burned. “I’m sorry!” she exclaims.

His eyes are dazed when he looks at her; his chest moves up and down erratically. “No, it didn’t hurt,” he says when he can catch his breath. “Felt...good. Maker, it felt so _good_.” He closes his eyes, groans again. “Andraste’s flaming hair. I might need a moment.”

Puzzled, Lark asks, “Need a moment for what?”

Gavin puts a hand to his face. His reply comes to her from behind his palm. “To calm myself.”

“ _Oh._ ” Lark feels her cheeks reddening.

He comes to her every day after that. Lark is still hesitant to touch him, but she is the only one who can help alleviate the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal. “Gavin,” she says softly, after two weeks have passed. “You have to go back.”

“I know. Just a little while longer, though.” He sits down on the chair. “I have enough left to hold out for another day.”

“That’s what you said last week.” Lark stands before him, reaches out, places her hands on either side of his head. “Either you’ve reduced your ration again, or you’re only taking it every other day. Maybe once every two days. You can’t do this to yourself, Gavin, you need to go.”

He closes his eyes. His voice is warm when he speaks. “Trying to get rid of me, are you?”

She scowls at him, knowing he can’t see her. “For your own good.” Lark’s magic rises, mists around her hands. She closes her eyes as well, sending her magic into him, seeking the place in his brain where the addiction is most concentrated. It’s hidden deep, but she is familiar with its location now. She gives it a little massage.

And even though this is something she does for him every day, Lark is nevertheless unprepared for the quiet groan of pleasure that falls from his lips, the involuntary backwards tilt of his head, the curved exposure of his throat. Blushing, she pulls her hands away.

Only to have them caught in his. She gasps, but he holds her firmly. His eyes open, meeting hers, and it’s like she’s seeing him for the first time again. She is frozen, just as she was back then; she is frozen, arrested by the intensity of green.

“If I’m to leave soon, then I want to be clear about something. Even if it’s the only truth we tell each other.” Gavin raises both of her hands to his mouth. She feels the soft gusts of his breath across her fingers. “Lark, I love you.” He presses his lips to her knuckles, his eyes still upon her. 

A shiver, electric, runs up both her arms. Lark stares at him. She’s forgotten how to breathe.

Gavin blinks slowly, kisses her knuckles again. “Breathe, Lark.”

She does, takes in one breath and another and another and another, the sounds loud in the silence.

“No response needed,” he says, chuckling quietly. “I leave it to you. I’ve said before I will not cage you. If at any time you don’t want this, simply take your leave of me.” He kisses her again, this time on the back of her hand.

Lark gulps and trembles, and says nothing.

Gavin releases her left hand, but keeps hold of her right. “I’ve been in love with you for years, I think.” Another kiss, on her wrist, over the hem of her sleeve. “It must have happened right after we first met.” He slides one of his hands up her forearm, pushes against her elbow, extending her arm. She barely feels the kiss through the cloth of her robe. “I was praying in the chantry, and when I turned around, I thought the Maker had sent you to me.” Gavin leans forward, kisses the inside of her elbow, draws back, then kisses the same spot again.

Lark feels the first stirrings of pleasure in her. She is supercharged, hypersensitive, her body reacting strongly to the new sensation of romantic touch. Gavin pulls her near as he stands, lets go of her hands, slips an arm around her waist. He bends, and his lips graze her shoulder. A little noise comes out of her throat.

Gavin’s lips curve into a smile, and he kisses her again, midway between her neck and her shoulder. Lark finds herself canting her head away, allowing him to kiss a line to her collarbone. He mouths it for a moment, and that part of Lark’s robe warms, moistens.

And then his lips touch her neck.

“Oh!” Lark cries out, a shudder running through her entire body. It’s a feeling she can best describe as delicious, and she finds herself craving more of it. Gavin obliges, sliding his lips up just a bit farther, kissing her again. Once more she shudders, and a short moan escapes her, turns into a longer one as he moves to a spot right under her jaw, then kisses her chin.

Gavin straightens then, looks down at her. She cranes her neck back as one of his hands cup her face. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself down to her.

“Larinnis,” she whispers, right before their lips meet. He pauses.

“What?” he murmurs, a hair’s breadth away from her.

“My real name,” she breathes, because if he can give her a truth, she can give him one back. “Larinnis.”

“Larinnis,” Gavin repeats, as if testing it, learning what it feels like for mouth and tongue and lips to form it. “Larinnis.”

His eyes close. Their lips touch, then press together in a simple, chaste kiss. Lark shivers, then opens her eyes. Gavin’s eyelids are still shuttered, his eyelashes laying almost flush against the darkness of his skin. Lark’s mouth parts around a quick breath before Gavin kisses her again.

Gavin kisses her and kisses her; he takes his time. At first his kisses are short, respectful even, but as time goes they become more hungered, more insistent. Lark yields to him, not knowing really what to do, allowing him to guide her, teach her. She feels his hand leave her shoulder to cup her cheek, feels a slight pressure against her chin, urging her to tilt her head to the side. She does, and Gavin’s lips press against her again, open slightly, in turn opening her slightly.

His tongue brushes along her lower lip, retreats. Lark sighs softly, and to her surprise she pushes against him, wanting more. This time it’s she who kisses him, she who parts his lips, timid, she who tastes the inside of his mouth, a dichotomy, sweetness and light acidity, and the normal humors of someone in good health. Gavin smiles then, grins even, and his other hand comes up to stroke her cheek as he kisses her, openmouthed, joyful.

Lark finds that kissing Gavin is like discovery, that touching him physically reveals treasures. He likes long, deep kisses, with tips of tongues meeting and sliding casually by; he also likes short little kisses peppered over his lips and cheeks. He sighs loudly when she pulls away slightly to take his lower lip gently between her teeth; he laughs when their noses smush against each other, cutting off air. 

Never in her wildest imaginings did Lark think she could learn someone like this, learn someone with faces close and bodies pressed together and warmth in her chest and stomach. Just his head and shoulders are a revelation, and Lark traces the contours of Gavin’s skin with questing fingertips, skimming so lightly that at times she thinks she isn’t touching him so much as touching the heat of him, palpable and tangible beneath the whorls of her fingerprints. Her left hand finds a spot almost behind his earlobe, downy soft; Gavin shivers, and Lark feels it in his lips. She digs her nails into his hair, longer now that he is no longer in the tower, relishes the spring of it, the give and return of it, lets her other hand touch Gavin’s cheek. Her thumb comes to a rest right in the crease of his nose.

He smiles against her again, drops his arms to her waist, pulls her closer in a whoosh of air and melding of mouths. His muscles flex, and in one swift movement Lark is being picked up and carried over to the bed on the other side of the room. Gavin’s eyes are shining as he sets her down and takes a seat next to her; their hands reach out at the same time, each touching the other’s face. Lark gives him a tremulous smile; Gavin laughs, the sound of it full of disbelief, and resumes kissing her.

Lark’s head is still spinning when Gavin’s hand begins moving lower, down past her chin, the sculpt of her jaw, the slenderness of her neck. His fingers touch her collarbone through her robe, smooth over the metal clasps and rings, and graze against her breast. 

Instantly something turns off inside her. She doesn’t know what, can’t tell, but everything stops, and Lark’s breath stills, her mouth freezing against his.

It takes a moment for Gavin to notice, but when he does, he pulls away. “Lark?” he asks. “Did I do something wrong?”

Her feelings are a jumble inside her, memories flooding up suddenly, crowding her mind. The guard, the alienage, Ser Lowick’s breath on her skin, the way Ser Evert looked at her. Her dress, torn and dirty; her first moon blood; Ser Lowick’s disgusting, pale eyes; Ser Evert’s words, _I am going to enjoy this, I think_. She gasps then, gulps air frantically, pushes off the bed and stands, wrapping her arms around herself. She feels sick.

“Lark?”

“I'm sorry, Gavin, I can’t - I can’t do this.” She puts a hand over her mouth, almost gags. “I - I need some fresh air.” Her words come out muffled through her fingers. She turns, her bare feet grinding against the floor of the house, and runs for the door. Lark flings it open and almost falls over in her haste to get outside, out to where walls don’t feel like a prison, where there is only open air and sky and stars and the smell of salt from the sea.

She is calm when Gavin kneels down in front of her, unemotional when their eyes meet. “Lark,” Gavin says, and she doesn’t respond, just looks at him, through him. “Lark. _Larinnis._ Come back.”

A deep breath through the nose, and Lark feels almost as if she’s just woken up somehow, that the last however many minutes or hours didn’t really exist. “Gavin.”

“Are you all right?”

She nods. “I am now.”

Gavin is silent for a moment. “Was it something I did?”

Lark shakes her head vehemently side to side. “I just…can’t. I’m sorry. If you - then I think about those times when… Ser Lowick, and Ser Evert…”

“If they touched you -” Gavin growls, his nostrils flaring.

“Not as bad as the ones I healed,” Lark says, and it’s true. She keeps her mouth shut around the rest of the truth, holds it back, buries it for another day. “I’m so sorry, Gavin - it was nice. I liked it.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he tells her fiercely. “You never have to apologize. None of it was your fault.”

She exhales the breath she’s been holding. “Do you still…?”

“Want you? Love you? Yes, of course.” He extends a hand to her, and she takes it, letting herself get pulled to her feet. “Maker, Lark, I’ve wanted you for years, I _burn_ for you. But if you don’t want to do this right now, I won’t push you.”

Lark drops her gaze to the ground. Her voice is soft when she speaks. “And if I never…?”

She can hear Gavin’s measured, slow breaths. It’s a long time before he answers.

“Then we won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is leaving me jittery and anxious and I'm putting it out here and hoping it'll do. Comments always appreciated of course, flames also accepted.


	10. Summerday, 9:37 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Rape. No seriously, rape.

Out of nothing, touch.

Out of darkness, a sigh.

An arm tightens around her, and lips brush her ear. Warm breath, cooling quickly, mists over her neck like fog on glass, burns away from the heat rising within her.

She hears the sound of a small kiss, that telltale soft click and sibilant draw of air; feels the hot silken wetness of a tongue, just the tip of it, dragged over her galloping pulse, then pressed against it, followed by the barest nibble of teeth and the closing of lips.

A scent, his, deep and rich, overlaid with salt and sand and the ocean and hers as well, mixed from time spent holding each other. Lark inhales in two smells, exhales one out, marvels at the wholeness of it, how they complement each other, how there is no wrong note to be found. They are good together.

She can see nothing, is probably half-awake and hazy, but her other senses are alive, the sensations magnified. The friction of his palm as it glides over her shoulder; his ghostly exhalations, long and sensuous as he moves over her; the taste of his mouth, needy and wanting on hers; they all vibrate through her, drill down into her core, cause an intense fluttering she can feel all the way out to her fingertips. In the dark, the sphere encompassing him and her widens, broadening, and it’s like they are one and the same. Her thoughts are his and his body is hers; she knows where his fingers will touch next, and he knows exactly how they will elicit her delicate shudders, her low cry of pleasure.

It pulses through her, the pleasure. It thrums and rushes, presses urgent between her legs and in her chest. It transforms her, turns her into a dancer, fingers spoking out, spine and stomach carving in, undulating to the beat of his heart when he clasps her to him. It erodes her will, makes her want things she’s never wanted before, like the knowledge of his fingers digging into her backside, the irrefutable theory of rightness when his hips are against hers, the stoking of her desire to stratospheric heights. She doesn’t want to come down, wants it to build forever, turn upon itself, make her an ouroboros, a rapidly tightening feedback loop shrinking to a point, cresting, _oh_ , she is almost there - she is - she -

Lark wakes with a start and a gasp, flailing. Her heart is pounding, and she aches, aches in a way that is unfamiliar and confusing. She is slightly dizzy and disoriented, and there is a odd, slick wetness between her legs. Strange, she thinks, there is no pain, and she has never had a cycle without pain before.

She pulls up the hem of her robes, slips a hand under and into her smalls, and oh, she brushes by her swollen sex, and the sensation of touching herself is so jarring that she flinches. She swipes a finger between her labia quickly, rights her clothing, rubs the slick between finger and thumb, sniffs it. It isn’t blood.

When Lark realizes what it is, she almost throws up. It’s disgusting.

Shaken and nauseous, her body still throbbing with desire, she gets out of bed. Lark doesn’t think she’ll be able to go back to sleep, so she finds a rag that’s clean enough, wipes between her legs carefully, clearing the mess away. She makes a face as she chucks it into the dirty laundry pile in the corner, decides it’s better to be outside than in, and leaves her shack, heading for the sea.

It is a warm, perfect summer night, wispy clouds stretching in smoky ribbons across the deep black of the sky. The moon is a silver sliver high above, shining weak light down on sand the color of charcoal. Lark is comforted by this, by the bleak monochrome landscape, by the openness of the sea. The sound of waves breaking upon the shore is soothing, as is the give of sand beneath her feet. Lark walks down to the water’s edge, gets in ankle deep, lets the foamy, cool waves run tingling over her skin until her arousal subsides.

When she feels normal again she begins walking through the surf, not caring that the hem of her robes is wet. Customarily Lark turns left, but tonight she feels compelled to turn right, as if something is drawing her, as if she has fallen into a spiraling orbit, pulled in by gravity. She wades along the shore, kicking up small sprays of water, tries not to think of her dream, or Gavin’s arms around her, or the raw wound of her grief, barely scabbed over. It’s been three days since she last cried over Thea, and Lark feels guilty about it.

Ahead of her Lark sees a figure sitting on the sand, legs drawn up, arms resting atop knees, chin atop arms. It’s Gavin, and Lark laughs to herself, laughs at how they’re always finding each other somehow, how she has ceased to be surprised when he shows up out of nowhere. They are always stumbling upon each other as if there are no other people around, as if they are the sole two characters in a tightly-written story. Like they are in a fairy tale, almost, because the fairy tales are always about the prince and the damsel in distress, and no one else.

In those fairy tales, especially the ones that Gavin loves best, the prince rescues the damsel, who turns out to be a princess, naturally, and they get married and live happily ever after. A wry smile tugs at Lark’s mouth then, because the fairy tale analogy is such a poor one when applied to her life. Gavin might be a prince, and she a damsel in distress, but there will be no happy ending, there will be no marriage; she is no princess, she is no _bloody_ princess. There will be no castle, no ever after, no future.

Lark gasps then, realizing that she has stopped walking, and puts a hand to her chest, overwhelmed by the magnitude of her epiphany. There is, she knows now, no tomorrow for her and Gavin, no next week, no next month or next year. There are no more birthdays to share, no more quiet times spent reading contentedly. Gavin has been languishing in the village, and now Lark understands why, understands his desperate bid at domesticity, at having a life with her for however long the lyrium will let him.

She feels for the first time the pain of heartbreak, the sorrow of a love that will never come to anything, feels it in the breaths knifing through her chest fast, feels it in the heaviness of limbs wanting to collapse and give out, feels it as a weight in her soul, crushing her. Whatever it is Gavin wants, she cannot give. Sex, marriage, children even, she is incapable of them all, no matter how much she loves him.

Lark loves him. Him, Gavin, her handsome shining knight, the uncorrupted.

She can never have him.

She has to send him back, let him go, shove him out, though it’s the last thing she wants for him, though it’s one of the worst things she can think of for him. The Templar Order is not a place for one as pure-hearted as he, but there is nowhere else for him to go.

A breeze starts, catches hold of Lark’s hair and robes, blows them to the side. Lark puts a hand to her head to hold down her swirling tresses, squeezes her eyes shut when they whip around and hit her in the face. When she is able to open them again, she sees Gavin has lifted his head, is watching her with a tender smile, the green of his eyes strangely washed out from the starlight.

Lark walks over to him, the hem of her robe dragging behind her, and sits. The break, she thinks, needs to be a clean one. She has to stop this, all of it.

“Can’t sleep either?” he asks her.

She shakes her head.

He reaches out and takes her hand. Lark looks down, observes the stark contrast of their skins, light and dark, feels the shudder that Gavin tries to suppress. “Gavin…?”

“It’s nothing,” he says tersely, but he shakes again, his hand clamping down on hers.

Her concern briefly overrides everything else. “Lie down,” she orders him. “Let me do something about it.”

“No, Lark,” Gavin says, gritting his teeth. “You do enough already.”

“Gavin,” she says softly, and something about her voice makes him freeze, turn his eyes to hers. “Let me help you.”

He sighs. “All right,” he allows finally, and lies down in the sand.

Lark presses a quick kiss to Gavin’s fingers before letting go of his hand and moving to sit by the top of his head. When she leans over to look at him, her hair falls in curtains around them. She places her palms against the curve of his skull, her thumbs touching his temples. She gives him a smile before she lowers her head and kisses him on the lips. “I love you,” she murmurs.

His widening smile, the brightening of his eyes, the lift of his spirit, all of them are like knives in her chest. Lark imagines them slipping between her ribs, piercing her flesh, slicing into her heart, stopping it from feeling.

She is resolved now in this, the one and only thing she can give him.

Gavin’s face is wonder and delight when she pulls away, and Lark takes the sight of him, the sound of his soft sigh, burns them into her memory, tells herself that this is what she’ll remember when she thinks of him, that his happiness is what she is leaving him with. “Relax,” she says to him, and closes her eyes.

Her magic begins as a haze around her fingertips, a feeling of laden air surrounding her hands. Lark doesn’t need much of it; she has perfected this by now, and she sinks her magic into Gavin’s head, seeking the pleasure center of his brain. She finds it, and flares the mist of her magic just a bit.

Gavin groans, but doesn’t say anything.

Lark pushes her magic in deeper, reaches for the parts of him that are frazzled and wanting for lyrium, coaxes her magic into him, little by little, more and more. There are more broken ends than she has seen before; the withdrawal is progressing fast, faster than he has let on. Lark attaches her magic to those broken ends, soothes away the crackling, disjointed need of his addiction, gives his mind the pleasure he wants from her body.

“Lark,” Gavin groans again, his throat tight around her name. “Lark, _Larinnis_ , stop - I don’t want -”

She ignores him, concentrating, bent on her delicate task, because if she makes even one mistake -

“Please, Larinnis, no,” Gavin begs, and then words fail him and he moans loudly. Lark opens her eyes then, sees Gavin’s hips bucking up, sees his chest heaving as his body experiences arousal. “ _No_ , what are you…”

She keeps her hands firmly on his head even when he grabs her wrists and tries to pull her away, presses them hard against him as his voice rises in moans with his unwanted pleasure, swirls her magic inside his head again and watches as he curls in on himself and climaxes hard and fast, his pleading _no, no_ choked off midway. His hands are vices upon hers, death grips.

Lark lets go of him then, meets the hurt and betrayal in his eyes as steadily as she can. Gavin turns onto his side, puts his hands over his face, breathing heavily. When he speaks, his voice breaks. It shatters her.

“Why, Lark?”

She rests her hands in her lap. They clench into fists, and Lark bites down on her tongue, extends fingers one by one until they are flat upon on her thighs. Her answer sounds hollow. “Because I can’t give you what you want except like this. Because you cannot stay. With me. Ever.”

“I don’t understand!” he bursts out, and she can see the anger begin to surface in him. “All I ever wanted was _you,_ Lark, and now you’ve - you’ve - you hadn’t the _right,_ Lark, what have you done? How could you...”

“You can’t be with me,” Lark tells him sadly, suppressing a sob hard enough to choke on it. There are tears on her cheeks. “I have nothing you want. I am nothing you want.” She pauses to draw up her courage, to take that hammer and pound the nails home. “I’m a blood mage, Gavin. I always have been. I’ve killed people with it. I killed Ser Lowick. I killed Ser Evert, but not before I used blood magic to control him. I killed the two templars guarding his cell.” Her voice is dispassionate, but inside, Lark wants to scream. The look on Gavin’s face is killing her, crucifying what remains of her heart, setting it to dying slowly.

She continues, even as the horror of her words dawns on him. “I am also responsible for summoning a demon into Knight-Commander Tiernan. Its name was Syncope, and I captured it during my Harrowing.” Lark stops again, then goes on. “I’m not sorry for any of it.”

Gavin’s face is ashen under his normal color, his mouth open in an expression of shock. “Lark,” he finally manages. “I…”

She shakes her head. “You need to take the last of your lyrium and go back to them, Gavin. The Order will need someone like you, undoubtedly to find someone like me.” Lark forces herself to stand then, brushes sand off her robes, tries not to look at him, electing to bear the weight of his gaze on her shoulders, her arms. 

Gavin doesn’t move a muscle, but the pain in his eyes speaks volumes. Wretched, she thinks, they are wretched, the both of them.

She speaks when the last grain of sand falls away. “I wish I were a better person for you,” Lark whispers, so as not to give away how much she’s hurting. “But I’m not.”

Lark holds her breath then, turns her immense willpower upon herself, tells herself not to stop crying, orders herself not to crack and fling herself down into the sand next to him and take back everything she’s confessed.

Instead, she says, “Good bye, Ser Gavin.” She turns for the village, lets out a quiet sob, the sound drowned out by the crash of the waves. She begins walking.

A shout from behind her once she’s twenty paces away. “I will come back for you, I swear it! By the Maker and Andraste herself, I swear it!”

 _Good_ , Lark thinks. She believes him. When he returns, she’ll be ready to face him.

Gavin leaves the next morning, and Lark does not come out to watch him go.


	11. 14th Justinian, 9:41 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear everyone,
> 
> Thank you for being here, and reading this story. I appreciate all the comments and the kudos; I even appreciate all the hits. This story has gained far more readers than I ever thought possible given the topics addressed in it. I knew when I started that it'd be controversial and dark and I am so far very, very glad that it has been received as well as it has. I'm still waiting for backlash, honestly.
> 
> I don't have much to say other than thank you, thank you so much for being patient and allowing me to explore Lark's character. I hope this last bit doesn't disappoint. Catch you guys on the flip side.

Lark is twenty-three when Gavin returns.

It has been almost four years exactly since the last time she’s seen him. In those years, she has traveled, lived among the Dalish, avoided much of the fighting in the war between mages and templars. She has walked forgotten paths in the Frostback Mountains, following that spine south to the Uncharted Territories; she has walked back through the Dales, feeling the press of the Fade through the thinness of the Veil, the echoes of blood beneath the soles of her feet.

Every year in early summer Lark returns to that little village by the Waking Sea, settles back down in her shack, clears it of dust and spiders and anything else that might be roosting in it. The villagers are always glad to see her, not knowing what she is, and she is kept busy for the month that she stays, healing all manner of wounds and illnesses, attending births, watching the children as they go down to the shore, looking for treasures.

Somehow it is the children who always know when she’s coming, who fling her door open the morning after she arrives, shouting _Lark! Lark!_ She’ll rouse herself, palming her gritty eyelids, smiling as she sees how much they have grown in the year that she’s been gone. These children, unlike the ones she grew up with, are perpetually innocent and happy, eager to fill her long silences with their chatter, ready to run her errands when she is lying infirm in bed, unable to move. She is content to be among them.

The children grow but Lark doesn’t, hasn’t since her confinement in the tower. She is much the same year after year, still frail and thin in her black robes and crow-feather mantle, still a set of too-large, haunted eyes in a heart-shaped face, her hair now cut short for practicality. She sings seldomly but somehow the children have learned that she can, and so she does, sings them songs with tears in her eyes and a tremor in her voice, the sea breeze snatching the notes away, carrying them off across the water. _Why are you crying, Lark?_ they ask her, and she lies and says _oh sweetlings, it’s because I’m happy to be here with you._

On the fourth year Lark comes back on her birthday. She arrives in the early evening after the children are abed, opens the door to her shack, decides not to do anything about the fog of cobwebs or the layer of dirt and dust on the floor. She leans her staff against the rough wood siding, drops her pack in the doorway, steps out of her boots, and heads for the sea to watch the moon rise.

Kios reveals itself first, rising over the horizon of the sea. Lark watches the group of five stars appear, waits for the lone straggler, lifts a hand, finger pointed, and traces the shape of a wing. A dragon wing, or perhaps a bird, not like it matters to her. Lark sits on the sand, draws her knees up to her chest, and stares up into space.

The moon rises, climbing into the sky, a full white face. Lark observes a faint shadow creeping across the bottom of the circle, realizes partway through that what she is seeing is an eclipse. The shadow grows, stretching across the silvery disk, and when it reaches the other side, the moon does not darken and become gray but bleeds red instead, the color spilling across like blood diluting, crimson to orange.

Lark shivers, just as she hears footsteps approaching. Something lands in the sand; someone sits down next to her.

She doesn’t dare look. Lark has been waiting for this moment for four years, and now that it’s here, she almost can’t bear to face it.

He speaks first. “Larinnis.”

She swallows; there is a lump in her throat. “Ser Gavin.”

“Just Gavin, if it please you.” His voice is friendly, conversational. “We’ve known each other too long for formalities, don’t you think?”

Lark gives him silence. She fixes her eyes on an imaginary point in the distance.

“If that’s how you’re going to act, so be it. It’s been a long time since we last spoke. I’ve had quite the adventure since then. I could write a book about my experiences.” He pauses long enough to fiddle with something at his waist, draws from a small pouch a vial of glass, glowing pink in the dark. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what’s happened in the last four years. About the state of mages and templars, about whether the Order is necessary, about the circles and what I’ve seen there.”

She stares at the vial, at the haziness of the blood swirling around in it like it is alive, like it’s still being pumped through an artery somewhere. She can feel the blood, almost taste the blood magic that was used to create the phylactery in the first place. The irony of the ritual has never escaped her.

Gavin keeps talking as he rolls her phylactery back and forth between his hands. “I’ve had time to think about what you said to me then, about what you did. About what you are.”

She speaks finally, turns her eyes back to the ocean. “I accept it. Your punishment. Your judgment. I deserve it. I’ve been waiting for it.” And it’s true, she has been waiting, waiting for four years to feel the righteous edge of Gavin’s sword, for oblivion to take her, for him to send her to wherever Thea is.

“I haven’t yet decided what it will be, Lark. I still have some questions.”

Lark hears the creak of leather and the click of plate as he moves. His hand touches her under her chin, slides over the skin of her jaw, cupping it. Gavin’s fingers tighten, drawing her close, turning her head so that he can kiss her. Surprised, Lark catches a glimpse of that intense green before her eyelids slip shut and her mouth opens under his.

She trembles when they part. “Did that help you decide?”

Gavin shakes his head. Lark, seeing him now, notes the maturity of his face, the wider set of his neck and shoulders. Gavin has grown up from the slender youth she once knew, has become a man in truth. He’s still beautiful to her, still holy and pure, even here under the negative light of a lunar eclipse.

She makes peace with herself then. There is nothing holding her back. “Let me help you with it, then.”

“No, thank you. I haven’t forgotten the last time you helped.”

“Then why are we even having this conversation?”

A scowl. “Maker, Lark, it might occur to you that some people have feelings.”

Lark fixes her eyes upon him, looks at him steadily. “Kill them, then kill me. It shouldn’t be too hard.”

Gavin barks a laugh. “Why didn’t you just take your own life, if you’re this desperate? Why wait for me?”

“And deprive you of the chance?” Lark snorts. “You made a promise to come back. Now you have. Do it, and get it over with. Then leave this life, leave the Order. Leave the lyrium that is ruining you, leave behind the kind of men I was glad to kill. Find someone if you can, and be happy with her.” She rises to her feet, walks the few paces over to where his sword lays in the sand, scabbarded. Lark bends down to retrieve it, wraps a hand around the pommel, draws it smoothly, hissing, from the sheath. She reverses her grip on it, tosses the scabbard to the ground, and goes back to Gavin, the tip of the broadsword dragging behind her in the sand.

She faces him, offers him his sword. The shadows begin to lift from the moon, and Lark can see tears on Gavin’s cheeks. She herself feels oddly disconnected, emotionless, like she is watching herself from afar.

“I only have one request, Gavin.”

He hides his face with a hand for a moment before he can answer. “What is it?”

“My pack. I left it in my house. Thea’s grimoire is in it. I want you to have it, as a birthday gift.”

Lark listens to the waves washing upon the shore for long moments, pretending she cannot hear Gavin’s quiet, broken sobs.

At last, he takes the sword from her. Her phylactery falls onto the sand.

Lark kneels in front of him, places herself perpendicular to him, looks into his eyes for the last time. “Strike true, Gavin.”

“Larinnis, what if - what if I can’t - “ His throat tightens; his words are cut off. 

“Why, then, I’ll make it easy for you.” Lark reaches behind her neck, pushes her hair away, clears it so that he can make the cut cleanly. She leans forward, closes her eyes, and _summons._

This time she does not fight the heat and the acid; this time she welcomes the demonic energy into her. This time she allows it to bubble and froth through her veins, lets it corrode her insides, waits passively as her body changes and mutates. She feels the flesh of her back peel apart, her skin sloughing away. Sour, acrid smoke sears her throat. 

Lark hears Gavin’s cry of anguish. His sword whistles as it comes down.

_Thea, I’m coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.
> 
> ([Bloodsong.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5184506))


End file.
